


Skull and Key

by Dream Mender (Llewcie)



Series: Skull and Key [1]
Category: The Dresden Files - All Media Types
Genre: Clothing Porn, Harry Dresden in an actual tux, M/M, Soulgaze, Stubborn flying dragons, actual porn, magical slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5876476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Dream%20Mender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The great Dragon Mai holds the key to Hrothbert of Bainbridge's imprisonment.  To get it back from her, he has to do her a favor.  But Mai's in deeper than she figured, and Bob realizes the hardest part of his job may be getting the stubborn dragon to tell the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was also written on LJ in the late 2000's. Although I don't remember everyone's name, I remember the love, and it was tremendous.

“Let me out.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s time, Mai. I’ve paid, and paid again. Don’t be stubborn now that you find you actually need me.” Bob rolled his gold ring lightly between his fingers, manipulating with graceful ease what pieces of the world had been tuned to his frequency. His voice was pitched low, as not to wake Harry, who was snoring peacefully upstairs. Across from him, Mai was curled up on the lab table, feet tucked up underneath her thighs, her delicate form so very deceptive. He knew that firsthand… could feel the ghost-whisper ache in his insubstantial bones where her sword had, so many centuries before… but that was past now. He was dead, and she was not. He was bound by chains, she by a promise. Words were so much more fragile than iron.  
  
“Stubborn, Hrothbert?” She laughed musically. “I would hardly call taking time to think over all the possible options and consequences being _stubborn_. And before you go thinking too highly of yourself; you aren’t at the top of my list.” Her beautiful face bowed in the parody of a demure courtesan, and briefly, Bob wondered if she had ever walked the courts of ancient China, breaking emperors to her will while wearing expensive silks. Outwardly, he blinked slowly at her, allowing a flickering smile to grace his lips.  
  
“I pity the soul who is, my darling Mai.” She returned his smile with interest, showing tiny sharp teeth the color of salt-water pearls. Her small hand lifted to comb through her dark, silken hair almost absently, exposing a long red chain wrapped several times around her neck. On the end was a small gold key. Bob’s heart leapt in his breast, slamming against his ribcage-- something he hadn't felt for centuries-- even as he forced his eyes to look away. Still, he had no doubt that she saw the violence of his reaction. With Mai, it was best to assume that she knew everything, and begin from there. “I’m surprised you would bring that so close to me, my dear.” At least his voice sounded almost normal.  
  
“It still requires the incantation, my lord of Bainbridge.” she murmured sweetly, leaning closer. The charm slipped under the collar of her shirt, but he knew that it was there, now. He locked eyes with her, and slowly stood, closing the distance between them in a few short steps. She lifted her eyes to his, black to palest blue, neither able to soulgaze the other, but it didn’t matter, anyway. Mai knew everything there was about Hrothbert of Bainbridge, and she had learned it, centuries ago, in the bare seconds between raising her sword and letting it fall, during which that same calmly intense gaze had never left her eyes. Afterwards, when he had been bound, it had been too late to ask him what it had meant. And although she had kept his skull with her for many years, he had never been anything but obsequiously polite, to the point of annoying her to distraction. That intensity had vanished, and she had never seen it again, until now.  
  
Mai didn’t move from her perch. But she felt a chill that was more than the proximity of a ghost. Bob’s hand slid across the space between them, over her arm, and his fingers dipped through her, under the sheer fabric of her shirt, and grazed over the key. His eyes fluttered closed, and Mai lifted her hand to push him away, and found herself in the awkward position of, for once, having no leverage. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Hrothbert, I do not find this amusing.”  
  
“Nor do I, Ancient Draconia Mai,” he whispered, his mouth like a lover’s against her cheek. He pulled back slightly, his expression wry, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Which is why I want to know why you brought the Key?” She could hear the title—for Hrothbert of Bainbridge, there was only one key. “Unless you enjoy torturing me, and you have had more than enough time to do so. I know how easily you tire of your sport.”  
  
She gave him a small smile, empty of warmth. “Answer me one question, Hrothbert, and then I might answer yours.” She was wresting control back from him—he could feel it in the sharpness of her words. He settled back on his heels and tilted his head slightly.  
  
“Your servant, madam.”  
  
For a heartbeat, she stared at him, her eyes wide, and then like a firefly’s light the moment was gone, and her eyes narrowed again. But that small flicker of her vulnerability filled him with a dangerous feeling. He knew that Mai had wanted him to serve her willingly, and he had thwarted her at every turn, obeying the letter of her commands and nothing more, until she, in sheer rage, had thrust him into the hands of a wizarding family with eight children, hoping to wear him down. But he had done his duty, tutoring and rearing wizards and their children in turn, and each time she had come back to him he had faced her with the same cold politeness as before. Finally, she had not come back. Even when the skull of Bainbridge had passed to the Morningway family she had done nothing. He might have been under the impression that she had forgotten him, had he been of lesser intellect. Or rather, experience.   
  
Now here was proof that she still harbored some of those same wishes. And she had brought the Key—his Key—into Harry’s kitchen. Harry, whom he served as Mai had desired him to serve her. His eyes remained on her, as they had many times before, betraying nothing. One distinct advantage of being a spirit was the ability to lie like a dog while staring wizards right in the eyes. Mai nodded slowly.  
  
“What happened that night, when Justin Morningway died?”  
  
Bob smiled, showing his teeth in a sharp bark of laughter. “Mai, oh, if you think to test my loyalty to Harry, you will be here all night, and I’m afraid you may not like his cooking.” But she shook her head impatiently.  
  
“No, that’s not it at all. Don’t misread my intentions, Hrothbert. I realize what Harry is to you.”  
  
“I doubt that,” Bob said seriously, thinking of the man sleeping upstairs, and the boy he had been. Thinking of Harry coming home battered and covered in blood, and holding up ineffectual hands, wanting to do something, anything, and being shut out. But Mai raised her eyebrows at him, impatient.  
  
“Shut up. I get it, okay? You love him. Now shut up; I don’t ever want to hear it again. This is the question. Justin Morningway was planning something the night of the banquet.”  
  
Slowly, Bob was dredging himself through Mai’s words, and out the other end. He nodded, gathering time to himself. “Yes. He was planning to incinerate everyone there. He had me make him all sorts of nasty surprises.” He paused, thinking. “But there was more. He made a connection.” And he stopped, and closed his lips, and gazed at Mai with the weight of six centuries. “But you knew all that. And you knew that Harry saved a lot of lives that night, by killing Justin. Didn’t you?”  
  
She watched him for a long time, a dark expression on her face. “Someone has to take the fall, Hrothbert. You of all people should know that.”  
  
“My fall is done.” He was no longer asking. After a moment’s contemplation, she nodded, and lifted the key, breaking the chain from around her neck.   
  
“Be free, Hrothbert of Bainbridge.”   
  
“There is no true freedom, if you are involved, Mai.” His hand trembled as he reached for the key. She smirked.  
  
“If I cannot be free, then _no one_ will be.” The Key touched his hand, slid through his essence, up his arm and across his shoulder to hang within his heart. Mai stepped to him, one of her hands on his skull, the other holding the chain. She closed her eyes, becoming the conduit through which his life-force passed. He felt it shift, and then the world exploded in an agony of sensory input.   
  
And then, darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Bob woke on the floor. He was lying on the floor. The polished wood slid against his jacket cuff as he turned his hand to glide his fingers against the smooth, worn grain of the paneled floor. Cedar, impervious to rot, among other things; he remembered when Harry had put it in. And then when he had had to replace it. Twice. This particular panel that he was lying on was a good deal rougher than the one next to it, newer by at least two years. A soft sigh escaped him, and he blinked to clear his eyes of sudden, overwhelmed tears. 

Mai must have been gone; she would have mocked him by now. So he took his time getting up off the floor, feeling the workings of gravity on the compact, powerful muscles of his old body. He had been a swordsman of no small renown, in his day. Morgan and that flat, heavy blade of his would find themselves catching a great deal of air and pinking. Bob shook his head—why would he be thinking of dueling Morgan? He had only been alive again for moments. Those thoughts could wait till after dinner, surely. 

He flexed every muscle in his legs, and then his back, working upwards to his arms, and finally to his hands. Strong, a fighter’s body throughout his life, out of necessity as well as for the sheer joy of it. And he felt just as if he had had a good night’s sleep, albeit on the floor. A perk, he supposed, of being in storage for several centuries. Of course, being on the lighter side of eighty when he had been murdered by the Ancient herself didn’t exactly fall against him. With a normal wizard’s lifespan, adding the experience he had gained in his years of prison, he might live to be a full millennium. Of course, why be so short-sighted? He quirked a smile. Mai must have needed his help very badly—he had few friends, and fewer reasons to make any. Bob breathed in, and out again, and then his expression softened. There was one person, at least, who would be very glad to see him.

It took Bob a while, though, to climb the stairs to the loft. Every touch was a new, exquisite experience to him—the coolness of the brass on the door handle, the soft, worn texture of Harry’s coat hanging on the banister. He paused to inhale the scent of the fabric, trying to gain the balance of the man that he knew at once more completely than any other on the face of the earth, and not at all. Sweat, leather, ozone… a sharp, falsely piney scent that hurt his hypersensitive olfaction. He squinted, and shook his head to clear it. Well, that would have to be thrown out, whatever it was. No wonder Harry had to label his bottles of powdered herbs, if the man was clogging up his senses with perfumes. Strange days, he thought, to be stepping into the world.

The stairs creaked slightly. Outside it was still dark, and Bob had no idea of the time. He glanced at the candles Harry had lit earlier that evening, and gauged that he had been unconscious for over two hours. No wonder Mai had left—the poor dear had probably paced for five minutes and then spirited away to go do mischief to some other damned sod. He had no doubt that she’d be back, but he pushed her out of his thoughts for the time being. And then he crested the stairs, and all thought stopped completely. 

Harry was shirtless, thrown across his bed as if he had fallen asleep within seconds of lying down. His hair was a mess of dark curls, dark with moisture by his temples and against the back of his neck. Bob traced Harry’s cheekbones, and his mouth, slightly open, with a tender gaze. Candle-shadows flickered across Harry’s chest, narrow and dusted with dark curls, muscles lean and wiry. He had flatly refused to learn how to fence, much to Bob’s exasperation. Dueling was rather frowned upon in 21st century Chicago. People just used guns, blowing each other to bits. No class at all.

Harry was so close, at that moment, and the feelings in Bob’s newly awakened heart so stunning, that he stood, frozen at the side of the bed, for untold moments. A soft breath, and Harry turned, and his dark eyes opened, fathomless in the darkness. For a moment, they stared at each other. And then Bob and Harry felt, at the same moment, the grip of the soulgaze. 

Harry thought, at first, that it was a dream. It never even occurred to Bob to turn away. 

In a moment, he was filled to the brim with the boy, the man, his dearest friend on one side of death. For this new life, he had many hopes, but he knew, better than most, that hope was a rope easily tugged out of frail hands. Harry was as beautiful a creature as Bob knew him to be, tormented and noble and full of sarcastic bravado. In an instant, there was nothing they did not share, nothing that was kept aside. Harry, gape-mouthed, tears streaming down his cheeks, finally stirred.

“I’m not dreaming, am I?”

Bob just shook his head, too moved to speak. 

“I just soulgazed you, Bob. Bob, how did I do that? How could you survive that much pain?” The questions from his lips ran together, streaming from his heart in desperate cadence. Bob did the only thing he could think of. He reached and stroked his thumb across Harry’s brow, soothing him as he had first wanted to sooth the child so very long ago. Startled tears leapt from Harry’s eyes, and Bob felt his nose and eyes burning in empathy. Harry’s skin was hot and damp with sweat, mixed with salt tears now, and Bob couldn’t remember anything that felt so electric to his fingertips. He folded to his knees beside the bed, and at the same time Harry reached out and took him around the shoulders, his powerful hand squeezing muscle painfully through his jacket. “Stars and stones, Bob, oh, Lord, you… this can’t be… how?” Harry slid to the floor beside him, taking him in, still soft and dazed from sleep and the soulgaze. 

Bob shook his head softly, reaching to grasp Harry’s arms, and then sliding his hands up to his shoulders to cup Harry’s head gently. “Not tonight. I will tell you everything tomorrow. But it’s real, make no mistake. And I intend for it to stay that way.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, gathering himself. His hands had found Bob’s wrists, the only exposed skin besides his face, and Harry was gripping him so tightly that Bob realized in a flash of delayed comprehension that the iron manacles were gone. He grinned at Harry, a tear or two falling to splash on the immaculate velvet of his suit. Harry peered back at him, from a sudden darkness. 

“Are you going to leave me now?” 

The question was sudden enough to feel like a blow, and Bob reacted like he had been struck. “Harry, no! No, never. I’m yours; you belong to me…” Bob pulled him in, gripped him tightly around the shoulders, rocked him until the tenseness left Harry’s body, and he slid his arms around his mentor and they lay curled together on the floor.

Finally, Harry broke, and reached up a hand to finger Bob’s white, feathered curls. “I’m gonna pretend to believe you, for as long as I can.” 

“Is that the best you can do, Harry?” Bob murmured. 

For a long time, Harry was silent. And then he raised his eyes to Bob’s again. “I know if I were you I wouldn’t be hanging out with a guy like me.” He attempted a grin, but Bob could see how much it cost him. 

“Enough. We’ll speak of it in the morning. I’ll even make breakfast.” Bob stood and lifted Harry to his feet, which was no small matter since the younger wizard topped him by four inches, at least. “Bed.” It was an order. 

Harry dug in. “Stay. I won’t sleep unless you’re here, because otherwise I’m gonna keep asking myself if I was dreaming. We’ll talk about it in the morning, okay? Please?”

Bob’s heart thrummed in his chest, overwhelmed to the point of breaking. “If that is what you wish.” But his blood rushed, yes, yes… yes. He lifted a hand to his collar, to calm his heart. Harry peered perplexed at the layers of clothing that Bob wore, and shook his head. This at least, Bob could rise to. “You find my clothing intimidating?”

“There’s just so much of it.” Harry waved his hand helplessly, affectedly, and Bob laughed with him, relaxing for the first time that night. He tugged at the ascot, and made short work of the jacket and waistcoat, folding them carelessly over the back of a chair. Years of practice made the buttons undo themselves, even though he savored the feel of the fine cloth of the shirt under his fingertips. Harry, who had been smiling, watching him undress, blinked suddenly, his eyes too dark, and turned toward the bed, climbing heavily onto it and collapsing on his side. Bob smiled tenderly at him, tugging off his shirt and tossing it on the pile. He sat on the bed, toeing off his shoes and hooking socks off with quick, certain movements. Being unable to undress for centuries at a time did not change the fact that it was a task to be gotten out of the way, in favor of better things. 

He settled on the bed on palms and knees, stretching slowly out, savoring the delicious feel of the textured sheets under his hands. With a sigh that could have been a purr, he settled onto the bed, where Harry was watching him with one arm propping up his head, a smile playing about his lips. “God, Harry, this is heavenly.” Bob burrowed his bare shoulders into the mattress, stretching and rolling every muscle and joint he could move. Slowly, he relaxed, letting out a breath, and closed his eyes. In the darkness, his hand found Harry’s shoulder, and Bob pulled Harry close against him. Harry’s hand slid tremulously over Bob’s abdomen to clasp his hip, fingertips curling under the waist of Bob’s pants ever so slightly, and his head curled down into the crook of Bob’s shoulder. “Never leave you,” he whispered against Harry’s cheek, as they embraced like lovers against the night. “Never leave you.”

He wanted, so desperately, for it to be true.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mai?”

Bob tried to shrug over a forkful of the best damned eggs he had ever tasted. Fresh, and the milk was fresh, and there were onions and cheese and a wonderful sausage that melted on the tongue. He tried to chew slowly, but the food kept disappearing. In fact, he thought he might have eaten most of Harry’s breakfast, too. He took a long swallow of coffee, which was his new favorite thing in the entire world—even better than tea, and possibly better than sex; he wasn’t certain yet. He would clearly have to do some fairly extensive tests. But Harry’s insistent eyes on him dragged him back to the conversation at hand.

“Who else, Harry? No one else has the power. She’s held the Key all along.” Harry shook his head, nursing his coffee. They had neither of them gotten much sleep, having spent the night reassuring each other that yes, it was real, and Bob was solid, alive, right there, yes... Bob had finally dropped off in the grey dawn to grab a few fitful hours, full of strange half-remembered dreams. When he had woken, he had at first not understood where he was, and had panicked, and thrashed them both awake—not difficult, considering Harry had both arms and a leg twined around him. A glass vase had exploded somewhere, and the air lit up with crackling ozone, choking Harry as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Bleary and startled, he had taken Bob by both shoulders and thrown him down on the bed, and had sat on Bob’s hips, panting. Bob had blinked, and then gripped Harry by the arms and told him, with perfect calm, “You were very lucky I didn’t kill you just now.”

Harry had grinned bemusedly at that, and slumped across his mentor’s body, the adrenalin already fading. He had mumbled good morning into Bob’s shoulder, and Bob had stroked his hair until Harry had almost fallen asleep again, savoring the rough wool texture of Harry’s hair, and the silk of his skin. Then there was the matter of the shower, which Bob loved intensely, and dressing in Harry’s clothing, which Bob cursed throughout and swore he wouldn’t go out in public in. Harry had to explain boxers to him, and Bob had peered at him like he was insane until Harry just tossed up his hands in mock despair.

They managed, together and with much digging, to find a white button-down shirt and black pants, and Bob buttoned up his waistcoat over it and scowled a lot in the mirror and pronounced that it would do. For today. Harry just rolled his eyes, wondering how the hell he was going to afford to dress the man who was accustomed to silk and velvet on a denim and t-shirt salary. Bob had patted his hand and told him not to worry. And now they were downstairs over breakfast, and Harry was still stumbling over the fact that it had been Mai, when she was the least of their problems.

“Move past it, Harry. Try and keep up. The reason she brought me out is much more serious.” Bob finally pushed his plate, which couldn’t be emptier had he licked it clean, to the center of the table, and leaned back comfortably in the chair, flicking out a paper napkin as if it were made of the finest linen. Harry watched him with fond amusement in his eyes, and shook his head, picking up both plates and setting them in the sink. “If you use the word fastidious, Harry, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.”

“You already did that this morning, Bob,” Harry reminded him. “I can’t take two thrashings by the same wizard in one day—it’s bad for my ego.”

Bob flashed him a razor smile. “I have twenty-five years of wanting to to make up for, my dear boy. You have quite a debt.”

Harry grinned back at him. “There was that time I didn’t toss your skull in the trash can after you completely fucked up my date with that gorgeous French girl…”

“There was that,” Bob agreed. “She was stealing from you, you poor blind darling. Remember the Aleph charm?”

Harry’s mouth hung open for a moment, and then he smacked his hand down on the counter. “Damn, and we searched so hard for that.”

“Ah yes, but you did enjoy fuckin--“ 

“Bob!” Harry held up his hand. “I got it. Thank you for saving me from my blind spot when it comes to beautiful women.”

“Less a spot, more a chasm.” Bob smiled urbanely at him, his eyebrows slightly raised. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his lips moving slowly as he counted backwards, gathering his patience. Finally, he filled his cup, and sat at the table. 

“Weren’t we talking about Mai?”

“Ah, I thought you’d never return. Guess what Mai asked me about, before she brought me back?”

“Uncle Justin’s untimely demise?” Harry’s eyebrows tilted ironically as he reached for Bob’s cup and refilled it from the pot on the stove. Bob’s mouth curled into a bow, his eyes reflecting the morning light in an appreciative twinkle.

“Point to you. More to the point, she wanted to know who Justin’s connection was.”

“The unknown entity who was going to ensure that Mai would die along with everyone else.” It wasn’t a question, even though they had never spoken of this before. When two people shared the same experiences, they tended to reach the same conclusions more often than not, and there was no one in the world Harry had shared more with than Bob. Harry was nodding. “I never knew that Mai was a drake until after the incident with the…the—“ he waved his hand at the front room, where the Darkness had taken Mai’s fire-breathing foe into the Other Side with a sucking pop that still invaded Harry’s dreams, some nights. What a day that had been. “—the other drake.”

“Nor should you have,” Bob conceded. “It’s not something she would advertise.”

“But knowing that,” Harry continued, “it would stand to reason that Justin’s connection was a drake too. And not a warlock, like we originally thought.”

“No, Justin wouldn’t have needed someone corrupted by the Black—he had the market cornered there, and he wouldn’t have wanted competition. Warlocks are funny that way. And clearly, the drake in question would not be the one that was sucked into the Outer Darkness.”

“Or you wouldn’t be having eggs this morning,” Harry finished.

“In a nutshell.” Bob smiled comfortably at him, and then reached out and stroked a finger across the back of Harry’s hand. “I don’t like to think that I’m in debt to Mai, but for this… for being here, with you…” His eyebrows peaked and fell, his expression inscrutable. 

A sharp voice invaded the soft moment. “I’m so glad that you are, though. It makes things so much easier for me.” Mai raked her icy eyes over their quiet morning table, a scornful look curling her lip upwards. “Have you made him your bitch yet, Hrothbert?”

Harry was too shocked even to swallow. Bob didn’t even react, except for a tiny smile that didn’t reach his eyes, like daggers sliding in slow motion through the air. “Quite the contrary, Ancient—he’s made me his, and our arrangement will continue as such until he tires of me and tosses me out, just as always.” 

She flashed him a feral grin. “How charming, your protection of him.”

“Not at all—you quite mistake me.” Bob stood, towering over her. The stinging scent of ozone pervaded the small kitchen as he continued, his voice so low it rumbled in Harry’s chest. “He is my life. I have died for him, and I will die for him again, without a thought to whom I take down with me, as long as he is safe. You had best keep that in mind, Ancient.” He reached out and stroked her cheek then, Harry half expecting his hand to burst into flames, but Mai stood and watched him without expression. “Do something for me, will you?” he murmured to her, so softly that it made Harry's stomach flutter, despite everything.

She raised her eyebrow slightly. “My Lord of Bainbridge, I’m all aquiver with this grand show of force. Whatever your heart desires, I’m certain we can cut a deal.” On her last word, her teeth glinted like knives.

He smiled. “Actually, Harry’s dirt poor, and I refuse to dress in rags. If you would like to keep me from embarrassing the Council by stealing what I require, I suggest you give me enough funds to outfit myself. And a lab,” he added, almost as if it were an afterthought. 

Mai’s eyes narrowed. “You want an allowance?”

“Call it, rather, back pay on an old debt, as we begin to seal the breach. Say, a hundred grand, for starters?”

Harry choked on his coffee. Bob fixed his eyes deep on Mai’s, a calm, almost delicate smile on his lips. Mai stared back at him, her fathomless black eyes calm and thoughtful. Finally, she spoke. “I’ll send Morgan over with the banknote later today.”

He bowed, then, and lifted her small hand, pressing his lips to her fingers. “My lady is too kind.”

“You play a dangerous game, my lord.” She eyed him intently, her gaze flicking over his face and shoulders, and his hands.

“It’s the only kind I know.”

“You’ll like this one, then. Tomorrow night you will be going to a ball. The Council doesn’t know that it’s being held in the city, nor will they,” she added, staring pointedly at Harry. “At the ball you will be my eyes and ears. Don’t get killed.” She slipped a piece of paper into Bob’s hand, and he glanced at it for a moment before immolating it with a whispered word. 

“I understand. Your servant, Lady the Ancient.” Bob smiled courteously at her, and she glared suspiciously back at him, before pinning Harry with a scowl and vanishing in a flicker of black and coruscating fire.

Silence fell over the small kitchen. Bob sat back down to finish his coffee, a frown on his aristocratic features. Finally, after some moments, Harry cleared his throat and spoke. “Did you really mean that, what you said to Mai, about…” But he couldn’t finish, his throat closing.

Bob blinked at Harry, softly, and nodded. “Yes.”

Harry blinked too, his eyes suspiciously damp. He looked down at his coffee, gripping the cup in both hands. “Let’s not have it come to that, okay?”

Bob reached over and stroked a fingertip through Harry’s hair, right above his ear. “That would be my preference, as well.”

He could see Harry struggling for equilibrium, and his heart broke for the man who had grown up with too few people to love him. That had changed last night, but there was a great deal of ground to recover. With a deep breath, Harry smiled. “So, a ball. What do we do next?”

“Wait for Morgan,” Bob rejoined confidently.

Harry gave him a strange look. “Whatever the hell why?”

Bob laughed at him, a sound full of delight. “Because he’s got the money, and you and I both need new clothes something desperate. We’re going shopping!”


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t long before Bob gravitated to the lab, scene of his endless pacing and fleeting interactions with the dust of the remains, the essences of the world. Harry found him there, an hour later, his head bowed over a book, candlelight highlighting his silver hair in gold filigree. His fine, long fingers were splayed lightly over the vellum, just barely touching the surface of the page as he slowly traced a sigil back and forth, judging the depth of the line pressed in the thin parchment with sensitive fingertips. Bob looked up at the shadow in the doorway, the slight change of light, and raised his eyebrows in question. Harry only nodded. Bob made a dramatic moue, which made Harry grin, and closed the book gently, savoring the weight of it in his hands for a moment, before going to meet Morgan.

The Warden stood, nattily dressed as always, in the front room of Harry’s office. He did not look pleased, but that could have easily been due to his favorite restaurant not having morels for their crepes. Morgan was like that—exacting to the point of annoying people with far better manners than he had. He not only knew what all the forks were for, but he became ruffled if everybody at the table didn’t use them correctly. And his sword was too shiny. His deep voice interrupted Bob’s entertaining mental character assassination. “Why am I here, Harry?”

Bob walked in the room slowly, counting on Morgan to ignore him, which he did. Another point against him, certainly in Harry’s eyes, but telling. Morgan didn’t know that Bob had been released. Harry looked keenly at him. “You don’t know why you’re here?”

Irritated, Morgan held out an envelope. “I was told to deliver this.” Harry started for it, but Morgan flipped the corner up. “Not to you. To your ghost.” Ah, yes. Morgan was irritated because of Harry. Well, not so unusual after all. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

Harry shrugged. “Am I supposed to know why The Powers That Be pull your strings, Morgan?” Morgan scowled at him, a promise of physical violence in the near future in his glittering eyes. Then he turned to Bob, who was standing passively by, watching the scene play out in front of him as he had countless thousands of times before. This role he knew well; however, it no longer sat well on him. Come to think, it never had. He raised his chin slightly.

“Morgan.”

“Hrothbert of Bainbridge. A delivery from the Council.” And with a mocking bow, Morgan flicked his wrist and sailed the envelope right at Bob’s head. For a moment, Harry’s heart caught in his throat. He needn’t have worried. With the grace of a dancer, Bob neatly sidestepped the sailing letter, and it whizzed past inches from his throat, skimming across the leather couch to land tucked under the desk. 

Bob frowned at Morgan. “That was poorly done, Warden. You should remember it isn’t wise to mock those who cannot retaliate.”

For a moment, Morgan looked genuinely puzzled, and then contrite. “My apologies. If I have insulted you, I am truly sorry. I did not understand my instructions. I still do not.”

Bob nodded, flicking his eyes surreptitiously at Harry. “We are often at the mercy of those who have the ends of our strings.” 

Morgan blinked, and then glanced at Harry, who had crossed his arms over his chest and was looking very inhospitable. He sighed, and shrugged uncomfortably. “Business concluded. Good day.” Something caught in the sun outside the window, a flicker of misdirection. Harry broke concentration as usual, getting distracted by inconsequentials. Bob watched Morgan walk out, his broad heavy shoulders slumped a little under that fine cashmere coat. The tiny glamour that he used to walk out unnoticed was hardly worth making effort over. Showboat.

After he was gone, Bob smiled at Harry, who gave him a conspiratorial grin in return. They both reached out hands to magic the letter, but Bob was closer, and it leapt to him as if snapped to by a rubber band. He opened the envelope with a flourish, his eyebrows creased in amusement, and tugged out the bank check, smiling warmly down at all the zeros. “Did she keep her promise?” asked Harry, peering over his shoulder, his breath a warm tickle against Bob’s ear. 

Bob nodded. “This one, she did.” He handed Harry the check. “Shall we, then?” 

But he had to shake Harry a few times to get him moving, because Harry didn’t want to take his eyes off the check, mumbling something about fairy gold, and leprechauns. Bob grinned, and took Harry’s arm at last, smiling into the uncertainly joyous expression of a man who has just been saved from drowning by the schoolyard bully. “This is just the beginning, Harry, my dear boy. Come with me, my dear. Come along.” Then, belatedly, his gaze fell across Harry’s hands to his chest and downward, and he stopped them both short with a look of horror. “Stars and stones, Harry, take that off at once. You are not going anywhere with me, looking like you just… just crawled off a two day bender!”

Harry looked down at the sweatpants and t-shirt he had thrown on after his shower. “You want me to take it off? You want me to go with you naked?” His eyes flickered with dark amusement. Bob tilted his head, seeming to speculate. 

“If those are my choices, then by all means, I choose you naked. Don’t tempt me to drag you out as nature made you, because, oh yes, I will.” Eyes sparkling, he gave Harry a gentle shove towards the stairs, and tugged the check out of his fingers. Gamely, Harry trudged upwards, tugging off his shirt as he went and sending it sailing over the top. Bob closed his eyes before he had to endure the sight of the sweatpants going flying, too. After a moment of grunting and the slamming of doors and closets, a shirt sailed back over the railing and landed on Bob’s head. Bob tugged it off, annoyance mixing with amusement, as Harry called, “Does that meet with your approval, oh Lord of Bainbridge?”

Bob shook the shirt out. At least it had buttons; though it was a vile shade of blue they called ‘denim’. “Not particularly, Harry. But it does, at least, have…” 

He trailed into silence.

Harry stood at the top of the stairs, in the process of tugging on his jeans. Bob could see the shadowed line of his hip, even from the distance of a floor’s height, and the flat plane of his belly, with the trail of dark hair that traced downward. He swallowed, and remembered that he had been speaking. Damned if he could remember about what.

“Have what, Bob?” Harry trotted down the stairs, his narrow hips rolling in that easy gait he had, the top two buttons of his jeans still undone. Bob raised both eyebrows, not even attempting to reacquire his balance. He tossed the shirt at Harry and smiled wryly. 

“Buttons. So possibly, they won’t throw you out.”

Harry tugged the shirt on slowly, his eyes never leaving Bob’s, never giving him a chance to recover. “I was sort of hoping you would have a hand in that.”

Bob spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m not a miracle-worker, Harry.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, and then, finally, his eyes dropped to the check, and then traced a path to Bob’s skull, so lately a prison. His point was clear without words. “Where are we going anyway? Not Walmart?”

Bob didn’t even dignify that with an answer, but held out his hand, into which flew Harry’s keys. “Ready now?”

“I don’t think so. But, yeah. Okay. Abracadabra.”

“Open sesame,” Bob rejoined. They walked out together, into the Chicago sun. 

* * *

Harry hadn’t really thought, clutching a shiny, new, and impossibly huge credit line, that he would be shopping at Walmart with Bob. Bob was the sort of man who would spontaneously immolate before setting foot in a Walmart, or possibly just set the place afire and consider it a service to mankind. Harry had thought: the mall. The Watertower, so long as they avoided nasty electrical deathtraps like elevators, would have been fairly safe and sufficiently swanky for a newly rebirthed and insatiable clothes horse intending to do serious damage to a one with a whole lotta zeros behind it.

Never, not in a million years, did he think he would be sitting in the upstairs room at Barneys New York. The upstairs room, mind you. Not in with the ready-to-wear suits that cost a cool two thousand apiece. Oh, Hell’s Bells, no. Bob had strode in, given the guy at the front an icy once-over, and snapped, “Lock up, gentles. You won’t be having any more customers today.” The fellow—small, olive-skinned, with exotic eyes and hands that moved like birds, must have heard something in Bob’s voice that he understood immediately, because seconds later, the doors were locked and ten men were standing at attention, awaiting orders.

Now, amidst more shades of black and grey than he had ever seen in his entire existence, even that time he had been commandeered by Molly, Michael’s oldest daughter, to chaperone at that Goth rock concert, Harry sat and watched Bob in his element. With very few words, and absolutely no wasted movement, he directed a small army of tailors as they took measurements, compared cloth and cuts, debated this cuff or that collar, and murmured words like butterfly gusset and keyhole buttonholes like they were some sort of mantra… which maybe they were. Harry felt like one of the unwashed. 

But as he watched Bob, a trance took him, of a sort. A subtle hand gesture here, and two men would leave and come back with four more bolts of the exact damn shade of black as before, and Bob and the olive-skinned man would pore over them, chose one, discard the rest… Bob would rotate his head slightly, his lips parted, eyes heavy lidded, and a smile would grace Harry, just for a moment—a secret, delighted smile meant for no one else. Harry found himself staring as Bob gave up his waistcoat for admiration, as the men purred and exclaimed over the richness of the fabric. Could they get this? Yes, the olive-skinned man assured him. Anything… anything. Harry found himself nodding in agreement. Anything…

And his mind trailed back to the moment on the stairs, when Bob had stumbled over his words, falling off into silence. Harry could count the number of times Bob had been at a loss for words on one hand, and have fingers left over. How was it possible that his appearing at the top of the stairs half-dressed in raggy jeans could have accomplished such a rare thing, when even Ancient Mai was played to silence by Bob’s word games? And Bob had seen him less clothed thousands of times. Admittedly, never after having spent the night hanging on to each other for dear life. At that remembrance Harry flushed, feeling heat blossom in places he was embarrassed to admit to. They needed to figure out different sleeping arrangements. Obviously. 

Bob chose that moment to come to him, a soft smile in his eyes. He looked nothing more than a great contented cat. Not the house kind, either. Harry smiled back at him. “Enjoying yourself, Bob?”

The man nearly purred. “Immensely. However, fair warning, Harry. Your turn is coming.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows, hoping desperately that he didn’t just understand what he thought Bob just said. “My turn?”

Bob put one hand on each arm on the chair and fixed his clear blue eyes on Harry’s. “Your. Turn.” He favored Harry with a small, dangerous smile, and then straightened, turning back to the concert which, for a moment, had proceeded without its maestro. Harry felt a little breathless, feeling a hot furrow in his heart where Bob’s eyes had raked across him. All of the sudden, unbidden, the memory of their shared soulgaze came back to him in vivid, high-density color. That kind of thing didn’t get forgotten, and couldn’t be a lie—Bob, or rather, Hrothbert of Bainbridge had been dangerous. Really fucking dangerous. He had worn every black hat in the closet, necromancer being only the one that happened to be written on his death sentence. The things he had done, and had known and written…. it gave Harry a wild rash of goosebumps. If he didn’t know Bob, he would be blasting him to Kingdom Come right now, or, to be perfectly honest, dying really heroically in the attempt. Hence their little game with Morgan, damn Mai to all nine Inner Rings. 

So when Bob had told Harry, when he had scared them both awake that morning, that he could have killed him, Harry had accepted it without question and still had sunk down against Bob’s bed-warmed body to soak in his touch, and be comforted.

Clearly, Harry had a big fat blind spot when it came to Bob. And, more or less, he didn’t give a damn.

It was this blind spot which enabled him to stand the torment of being fit for any number of insanely expensive suits. Once, when he got a pained look in his eyes, after one of the cutters had suggested velvet, Bob had murmured in Harry’s ear, reminded him who was footing the bill for all this delicious extravagance. That improved Harry’s mood considerably. And once he got accustomed to being touched, he found he liked the idea of a few shirts made of linen, and maybe a nice jacket or two. When he mentioned as much to Bob, the man positively gleamed, teeth showing—further cementing the metaphor of a jungle cat in Harry’s mind—and nodded at the olive-skinned man, whose name, Harry had by now discovered, was Charlie. 

Fabric bolts in a hundred shades of everything began piling up around Harry. He glared at Bob, but seemed suspiciously unable to meet the man’s eyes. Bob was smiling, but he was half-turned away, his weight balanced lightly on one hip, nonchalant. That was fine. Harry would get him back later. Fortunately, he knew where Bob lived. And then Charlie was asking him opinions, this or that, and he was answering simple questions, and finding the piles becoming smaller and smaller, touching fabrics that felt soft and wickedly sensual to his fingertips. Without knowing how it happened, he had managed to order a closetful of shirts, and three suits, several jackets, and pants that fit him right at the hip, and actually went all the way down to his ankles. He smiled, bemused, at Bob, who was now sitting comfortably in the chair Harry had abandoned, looking pleased with himself and sexy as hell.

“Addictive, isn’t it?”

Harry flushed, too embarrassed to admit that, yes, that was exactly what he had been thinking, dammit. “I refuse to answer that, Bob, on account of I’m manly and gruff, and have a reputation to protect.”

“Prepare to have it dashed to pieces, dear man.” 

Harry sighed. “You are truly the most dangerous man I have ever known.”

“Shh. Don’t tell.” He gave Harry a conspiratorial wink, and turned to Charlie. “Thank you for your assistance, tonight, but we have need of something more of you. I’m afraid, on rather short notice, we’ve been invited to a ball.”

“Black tie?”

“It’s tomorrow night. We’re dressing for royalty.”

Charlie’s eyes, which until now had maintained a calm that would have made his master proud, widened slightly. He thought for a moment, standing perfectly still, but Harry saw the vein in his throat pounding. The man was as cool as the new winter snow, but Bob had thrown him. Then his eyes lit up. “I have a thought, if you would be so good as to wait, gentlemen.” Bob lifted his chin in that curiously English mode of dismissal, and Charlie flitted off, as the tailors vanished to their considerable work. Only then did he relax.

“He’ll find something.”

Harry smiled. “If not, I think I have this maroon tux my dad used to wear for the shows.” Bob grinned at him, managing to look both tender and exasperated. They stood for a moment, before Harry had the courage to ask the question that had been itching at him all evening. “So, how much did we just spend?”

Bob raised his eyes to the ceiling, doing lighting fast calculations in his head. He nodded, turned to Harry, and smiled mischievously. “Forty seven thousand.”

Harry blinked. “Wha?”

Bob’s smile grew wider. “You spent fifteen of that yourself. Makes me so proud.”

“I could use a new car, Bob.”

“Patience, Harry, darling.”

Charlie came striding back with two suit bags in hand. He hung them up, and then unzipped each one, to reveal two black formal suits. The one on the right was completely classic—the coat cashmere and patterned with a subtle stripe, the collar high and notched. The other… Harry jumped in his skin—the one on the left had a mandarin collar. He blinked and ducked his head close to Bob. “Are you going to think less of me if I drool over a tux, after all the fuss I’ve put up tonight?”

“Mr. Dresden, just please, don’t drool on it.” Charlie smiled for the first time in the whole evening, and Bob grinned. 

“They’ll do. Can we fit them tonight and pick them up tomorrow, say, around five?”

Charlie bowed, his eyes bright with what looked suspiciously like tears. “They’ll be ready. Shirts?”

“Put something together, would you, Charlie?” Charlie nodded. Bob turned to him with careless, heavy-lidded satisfaction. “Pay the man, Harry.”

Harry paid the man. He thought he caught a tremor in Charlie’s hand as he saw the card clear for $57,098.76. Bob had put on a five thousand dollar tip. Harry hadn’t even blinked. This spending-Mai’s-money thing was easier than he thought. And it felt better than sex. At least, any sex he had had in recent memory. Which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot. 

He and Bob hit the cool night air with a sense of triumph not unlike Alexander might have felt on a good night in Persia. But after all of the attention, Harry was nothing short of drained, and he begged off for the rest of the night. They ended up picking up Thai on the way home and crossing the threshold shortly before nine. Harry set the food down on the table, grinned peacefully at Bob, and sighed. “I’ll sleep on the couch until we can work out better arrangements, okay?”

Bob blinked at him, the smile leaving his eyes like color from an old photograph. “Whatever for, Harry? I’m fairly certain I won’t try to kill you again, if that’s your concern.”

“No! It’s just, well, I…” Harry paused, wondering why the hell he was having trouble coming up with words. Bob must have seen it, too. His expression closed off, a red curtain falling.

“That’s fine, Harry. But let me take the couch.” He looked so solemn, Harry felt like an asshole. He reached out to take Bob by the arm, but Bob sidestepped him neatly, his eyes narrowed. “Until you decide what you want.”

Harry felt that last like a visceral blow. He shook his head stubbornly. “No. And don’t argue with me.”

“Since when have I done that?” parried Bob lightly. But he acquiesced. Even so, Harry didn’t feel like it was a win. And after he had settled on the couch, which really was too short for him, he was wakeful late into the night, listening to the small sounds of Bob upstairs, taking another outrageously long shower, nestling into the mattress, and then later, the pages of a book turning, in the dark. Harry didn’t move, afraid that if he did, he would get up, go right upstairs, and beg forgiveness… and slide into the bed, into arms that would hold him, sooth and comfort, and perhaps…soft… But he didn’t think too far along that line of thought—it was far too dangerous, and easy to convince himself of the sanity of it. 

So he just lay there, far into the night, and ached.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry woke to a jab in the ribs, and blinked his eyes blearily to make out a man-shape in the darkness. It wasn’t how he was hoping to be woken, nor was the man-shape the correct proportion to the man he had hoped, in his dream-addled brain, would do the waking. Not even close.

“I knew something was wrong. I walked out knowing. It took me all night to put my finger on it.”

“Morgan?” mumbled Harry. He flicked his fingers, whispered under his breath, and the candle next to the couch flared to life, illuminating the stony, dark face of Mai’s senior Warden not two feet away. In Morgan’s wide, strong hands was Bob’s skull, rotating in mesmerizing slow motion between his fingers. 

Hell’s fuckin’ bells. Harry sucked in a breath. “Be careful with that.” He was completely, one hundred percent awake now, as much good as it would do.

“Why?” Morgan’s teeth gleamed in the dim, golden light, his voice lilting as if he were telling a children’s story. ‘There isn’t anyone living in it anymore.”

“Yes; however, it still belongs to me,” drawled a deceptively sleepy voice from behind Morgan. “Kindly hand it back, my good Warden.” There was no hint of a threat in Bob’s soft voice; there didn’t have to be. Still, Morgan turned the skull over a few times before he lifted it over his shoulder. Harry thought he might be tired of bowing to wizards more powerful than he, and on the wrong side of the Code, at least as far as he was concerned. Wouldn’t sit well with a man of Morgan’s inflexible morality. Bob took the skull from him, gently, and followed with a question. “So what gave me away? Footfalls?”

Morgan snorted gently. “No, nothing so prosaic.” He half-turned to Bob. “There was dust on your normally immaculate cuff.”

Harry watched Bob nod thoughtfully, processing this. “Ah, from the book I was perusing beforehand. How clumsy of me. And how clever of you.” He sounded proud, as if Morgan was a promising student. A twitch of jealousy tugged at Harry’s throat, and he stifled it.

Morgan lifted an eyebrow. “Simply observant.”

“Indeed. Those sorts of things can get a man… noticed.” The man in question wasn’t Bob, clearly. Morgan’s eyes flashed with anger.

“Is that a threat, necromancer?” Harry’s eyes widened. Name-calling already? But Bob simply smiled, glimmering in the darkness where he stood half-shrouded.

“Merely an observation.” They were all very quiet for a moment, as various implications and layers of new understanding settled down over the three men. Then Bob walked around the chair and crouched down next to it, leaning lightly back on his heels. Harry saw that he was still partially dressed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to expose finely-muscled forearms. Bob’s eyes met his, briefly, but they shared nothing of significance, beyond the mild strain of being woken out of bed in the middle of the night. Harry recognized a game face when he saw one. “So,” Bob continued. “Now you know.”

Morgan nodded slowly, deliberately. “But not why.”

“Why what?” Harry asked softly. “Why Mai did this?”

“Or why I shouldn’t kill you right now?” Morgan finished.

Bob smiled urbanely. “Funny, but Harry was thinking that just this evening.” The bottom dropped out of Harry’s stomach, and he stared at Bob, dismay dawning over his features. Bob returned his gaze with solemn gravity. “It’s alright, my boy. I would seriously wonder about your sanity if the thought didn’t drift through your mind.” He pondered for a moment, turning it over. “Of course, if it stayed, I’d have to move out…” Harry breathed out, his whole body moving in sympathy to reassure Bob that it had never been his intention… but a sparkle in Bob’s pale eyes caught the light just so, and Harry realized that Bob was taking the mickey out of him. He shook his head, half-uncertain, half wanting to leap across the couch and—and… and what, exactly? But Bob was speaking again. 

“I have four good reasons, besides the fact that you wouldn’t succeed.” He punctuated each with a long, slender finger. “I don’t want you to. Mai doesn’t want you to. Harry doesn’t want you to. And, if you were honest with yourself, you don’t really want to, either, Morgan.”

“I know what you’re capable of, Bob.” Morgan’s voice was strained, wary.

In contrast, Bob could have been ordering dinner. “I haven’t been that man for quite some time. Besides, the Ancient could clean the floor with me. Why are you so eager to throw away your life?”

“I’m not eager to kill you, or die, either one. I’m just… trying to understand why Mai would take such a terrible risk.” Morgan sounded genuinely troubled, almost betrayed. Harry was having a hard time dredging up any sympathy.

Bob waved his hand gracefully in an aimless gesture that spoke volumes. “Why does Mai do anything? She wants something from me that no one else can do.”

“Which is?”

Bob pursed his lips, shaking his head gently. “Sorry.”

Morgan sighed, and for a moment, he actually looked his age. Wizards age more slowly, true, but it was exponential. Harry was nearly forty and looked thirty, Morgan was sixty and looked forty, and Bob was eighty, at the very least, and looked fifty, if that. Well, technically, Bob was several hundred centuries on top of eighty, give or take a few decades on either side. But right then, even in the soft flattering candlelight, Morgan could have gotten the senior discount at Denny’s, no ID required. He sighed again, but this time with finality.

“Fine. For now. But I don’t like it.”

“Morgan,” purred Bob, “That’s hardly a prerequisite.”

* * *

After they had watched Morgan go a second time, Harry turned with some heat to Bob, who had moved up to the chair and was threading his fingers through his short silver hair, his eyes closed. “I feel like a little kid, always two steps behind you. Why didn’t you just ask me, if you knew I was worried about the power you could wield?”

Bob opened his eyes, and blinked sleepily at Harry, and then reached over and stroked a warm finger down the line of his jaw. “If it were a problem, you would have mentioned it. I don’t feel I need to reveal everything I see in your eyes.” 

It might have been the extreme lateness of the hour, or the dreams, or the gentle touch… Harry didn’t know. But something, maybe all of those things, propelled him gently upwards, his hand finding the corner of Bob’s jaw, his mouth finding Bob’s mouth, lightly brushing his lips. Bob murmured his name, delicious and warm, his voice soaking through Harry like honey. Foreheads pressed together, they grazed each other’s mouths-- touching lips, touching fingers, until Bob took Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth and Harry felt close-cut fingernails biting into his neck. 

Lust blossomed like a fireflower in Harry’s belly—a beast of which he had never felt the like, and he broke against Bob like a summer storm, his kiss suddenly as violent as it was open; as urgent as it was deep. His hands raked across Bob’s back, powerful, digging into his muscle, pulling him apart, trying to get inside, almost. 

The sudden intensity shocked the small sliver of his reason that was still functioning, and Harry threw himself backwards into the couch cushions, his hand outstretched, panting, eyes wide. “Whoa! I’m so sorry, Bob. I’m so sorry. Don’t know where… did I hurt you?” 

Bob was rocked back in the chair from the force of Harry’s thrust, holding his hand over his mouth, his eyes hooded. When he dropped his hand down, Harry was shocked to see that Bob’s lip was bleeding. But instead of gaping in disbelief, or some other normal emotion that Harry would expect form someone just unexpectedly assaulted, Bob was smiling softly, and licking at the blood with a darting tongue. After a moment he spoke, but his voice was a little breathless. “You didn’t hurt me, Harry. Not in any manner… unacceptable.”

“But… you’re bleeding,” Harry pointed out, feeling dense, trying to calm his heart, trying to recognize what was inside him that had just taken him over.

Bob’s eyes fell two shades darker. “Not mine.” Harry’s hand jumped to his mouth, to find a bite mark had split his lip. He hadn’t even felt it. His heart pounded, the taste of his own blood so lush, and the desire so obvious in Bob’s eyes—even so, a mirror of his own. He knew exactly what Bob saw, looking at him, and he wondered why he hadn’t recognized it from the beginning. Harry heaved a great, shuddering sigh, and just gave in, letting it all flow over him. Desire, blood, loyalty, responsibility… everything. 

“Hell’s bells, Bob… I’m not sure what frightens me more. How much I want you, or what it will cost us in distraction and in discipline, if we let it take over. What with Mai breathing green dragon fire down our necks, it’s not exactly the best time to be fools in love.” He fell back on the couch, hands over his face, groaning in frustration. 

Bob scowled at him. “Fucking hell, Harry, but why do you have to be so damned practical all the time? Throw caution to the wind, once in a while!” 

Harry just peeked at him from behind a finger. “Throw caution to which wind? The dragon we’re looking for or the dragon who’s paying us?”

“Fuck you, Harry.” Bob gave him a pained grin, but stood down, his muscles releasing tension like a desert road releasing heat. 

“Please quit saying that word. I’m so hard over here I could fly a flag from my dick.” He grinned, and then laughed, the tension leaving him in a rush. Bob leapt on him, straddling him lightly, and pinioned his shoulders, grinning, as Harry raised his arms in surrender. 

“I will have the chance to return this to you, you realize,” Bob told him, still smiling, something feral and wild in his eyes. “When this is all over, you won’t get the chance to back out.”

Harry smiled back up at him, pure joy gracing his features. “When this is all over, Bob, I wouldn’t take a chance to back out even if it came with a million dollars and a ticket to Italy.”

“You’d pick me over Italy? How loyal.” Bob stroked a finger down Harry’s cheek, and Harry’s dark eyes fluttered closed.

“I tend to be,” he murmured. “Now… Singapore…” The mischievous grin resurfaced, and he shook with silent laughter. Bob shook his head fondly, sank down, and kissed Harry on the mouth, soft and deep and very, very thoroughly. Harry’s hips rose toward him in a wave, and for a moment, they were lost, rocking gently in time to a rhythm that moved oceans, and hearts. And then, softly, Harry moaned, “Mercy… have mercy…” His head tilted back, his throat exposed; the desire radiating from them both was enough to power a small sun. Bob reached down deep and found the center of his calm. 

“Harry, may I stay with you? Here? Or is it too much?”

He felt Harry’s chest expand in a small chuff of laughter. “Yes, it’s too much. Yes, stay. Please.”

They twined themselves together, gently but tightly. Bob rested his head on Harry’s chest, and Harry held on to him for dear life. Only then, finally, did either of them get any sleep at all.


	6. Chapter 6

Bob woke early, and as soon as he was coherent was immediately glad that Harry was still asleep. They younger man’s expression was that of blissed-out, unadulterated love, and Bob was perfectly certain that there would be no resisting such a temptation, even with a whole court of drakes encircling their little stronghold. So rather than give in to the melting sensation that was reducing his abdomen to the consistency of hot wax and his cock to something exactly the opposite, he gently extricated himself from Harry’s embrace and walked determinedly upstairs for a very long shower, during which he could at least take the edge off. It didn’t really help, but some measures had to be taken simply as a matter of survival. 

Plundering Harry’s closet and drawers produced nothing even remotely satisfactory, and irritated, Bob realized that he was going to have to go native, at least until Charlie came through with some decent attire. Harry seemed to dress almost exclusively in various shades of mud—Bob supposed he just saved time that way, and wouldn’t even have to bother with either matching or washing, most days. Scowling, he held up, at arms length, a pair of pants stitched from the heavy canvas called denim— jeans, but not the pair that had turned Bob’s innards to jelly… was it only yesterday? Part of him flickered nervously, absolutely certain that he would never look as good as Harry could in these things. The rest of him told the little voice to shut the blazes up. Hrothbert of Bainbridge had often had to make due with less. He would not be conquered by a pair of Levis.

As he tugged them on, he did, rather quietly, admire the soft, broken-in feel of the fabric. But not to the point where it might be habit forming, of course. And the fly had buttons… that was nice—no zipper teeth to bite on tender skin. Whoever had invented the zipper surely had never intended for it to be used so close to such a sensitive area, regardless of convenience. Oh no—some colonial likely had something to do with that pithy idea, as well. He sat down on the bed to cuff the bottoms once, and then found his good leather shoes, which had thankfully made the transition with him. At least he wouldn’t be reduced to wearing tennis shoes, or some other thrice-cursed item of the ‘casual’ persuasion. How he ended up in the land where people drank tea with ice cubes in it… he briefly covered his eyes with his hand, and then set about looking for a shirt.

What he found was a t-shirt. The shirt that goes underneath the actual clothing that a person would desire people to see. Harry wore his underclothes out in public all the time, and it never seemed to faze anyone. Of course, clients had come into the shop with even less… At least the shirt was black. He tugged it over his head, scenting the harsh astringent of a cleaning solution and something uniquely Harry, a scent that never washed out. The shirt pulled tight over his chest and biceps, but he didn’t have to unbutton the pants to tuck it in. Bob was mildly surprised that the shirt fit so snugly—they always looked so baggy on Harry. Harry needed fencing lessons—the boy was too lean for his height. A little muscle wouldn’t kill him. He narrowed his eyes, and peered around for a belt, but then realized that the jeans were just supposed to ride low. Shaking his head, feeling thinly dressed and vulnerable, he headed downstairs to make himself some tea. Or coffee. Maybe both. 

The simple luxury of heating water, spooning tea into the pot, letting the steam tickle his nose—all these things did wonders to shore up his waning self-confidence. It was in this position that Harry found him, not too much later, blissful smile still intact and soft-wool hair looking as if it were trying to flee his head in every direction at once. Harry scrubbed his hands over his scalp, stretched languorously, and then blinked twice, focusing slowly on his former mentor.

“Are you wearing my jeans, Bob?” 

Bob cocked a wry eyebrow at him. “No, these are Mai’s. She came over and we had a shag before breakfast.”

Harry stared at him, astonishment blanketing his face. “I can’t believe you would even kid about something like that, you bastard!”

“That’s a terrible accusation, Harry. My parents were married well before my birth, thank you very much.” 

Harry was still reeling, stunned that anyone could talk about Ancient Mai with such careless flippancy. He took a breath, and then tried again. “Besides, she’s countless sizes smaller—her jeans would never fit you.”

“Yes, well, my cock wouldn’t likely fit her, either.” Bob’s ice-blue widened slightly. “She’d likely make a diamond out of it, the tight bi—“

“Bob!” Harry shook with startled laughter. Bob grinned urbanely back at him, the soul of gentility in t-shirt and jeans. Their eyes met, and then Harry’s gaze flowed smoothly down the rounded curve of Bob’s biceps and pectorals underneath the thin fabric of the shirt, across his flat abdomen, and over his well-muscled thighs. He swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was rough around the edges. “I’ve never seen so much of your skin exposed, all at once. And so much else so clearly… um, defined.”

Bob’s smile turned tender, and somewhat confused. “My dressing down makes you find me more attractive than what I normally wear?

Harry shrugged slightly, clearly just enjoying studying him. “Not more attractive, no. More accessible, maybe. Fewer layers.” He grinned suddenly, hungrily. “And those are my jeans. Next time I put them on, I’ll know you’ve been in them.”

Bob’s eyes returned the hunger. “And I have the pleasure of knowing I’ve already been in your pants.”

Harry’s mouth fell open, a look of pure need wiping away every other expression. He panted a few times, closed his eyes, turned himself around, and headed for the stairs. “Shower,” he muttered just loud enough for Bob to catch. “Long shower. Cold. Long, cold shower.”

Bob’s gaze followed him all the way up the stairs.

* * *

Once Harry made it back downstairs, they moved to the front room. Harry had opened a bottle of ale, warm, from Mac’s. He hadn’t eaten much, either, and was half dressed in a pair of jeans and nothing else. His lanky body was stretched out on the couch, head tilted back to expose his long, graceful neck. Bob didn’t even bother to try not to stare, but he did put a table between them as a buffer as they plotted for the coming evening. Bob knew a great deal of Justin Morningway’s plans, but Harry knew some things that he may not have known the significance of, so they laid it all out for each other. Bob went first.

“Justin didn’t start out as a murderer, you realize, Harry.” Bob took a sip of coffee, trying to organize his thoughts. “He got twisted by the Black… I watched it happen. His father was not a good man, and Justin was a neglected child, much like you. Except that you had the love of your father as a buffer between you and all that lust for power. Your father saved you from a terrible life, Harry.”

“So did you, Bob.” 

Bob raised his eyebrow. “Ah yes, the ghost that taught you the Black under orders from your uncle.”

“And taught me kindness, and honor right along with it. I’m not going to debate how much I owe to you, Bob. If Justin had been the one teaching me, he wouldn’t be dead now. But a whole lot of other people would be.”

Bob pursed his lips thoughtfully, but let it go for the moment. “Leading up to the banquet, he had me making all sorts of party favors. It was going to be a slaughter.”

Harry slid his wrist behind his head, frowning. “How did he plan to place all of these items?”

“That was the bloody and twisted genius of the plan. None of them had any magical resonance. They were all, literally, party favors. Rings, jewelry, odds and ends—all made to appeal to the individual. Inside each one was a trigger, a sliver of the same piece of an ancient gold coin.” Bob shook his head, darkly appreciative. “And when he invoked the working on the coin…” He didn’t finish.

“Pop goes the weasel?” Harry suggested. Sudden chills made gooseflesh appear on his arms and chest. “What was it? A summoning?”

“It was, of a sort. A reverse summoning.” Bob looked away from Harry at the last, his voice small and quiet, filled with regret.

Harry’s goosebumps got goosebumps. “You can do that?”

“Mmm. Just remember the difference between can and would, my darling.” He sighed heavily. “Justin would have been pulled somewhere innocuous, every other wizard having found themselves unceremoniously yanked to the Nevernever. Possibly never to return.”

“One way trip.”

“Oh my, yes. He had carefully researched, finding demons that each wizard had really pissed off, and giving them time and place. It was, in all, a quite impressive piece of work. I did what I could to talk him out of it, but in the end…” Bob’s eyes grew very dark, and Harry recognized the cold storm of fury there.

“In the end?” he prodded.

Bob’s eyes focused on him again, and in them, Harry read such a terrible darkness that he was quite certain that had Justin Morningway still been alive, he would need to get his affairs in order, and hurriedly. “In the end, he threatened the only person I cared about.”

The bottom dropped out of Harry’s world. His mouth opened and closed, and he took a breath, before he could speak. “He would have killed me for this? For your cooperation?”

Bob squeezed his eyes shut, and then focused on the floor. “I certainly believed him capable, at the time. But the more I think back on it, the more I believe that he realized that you were my one weakness—my blind spot, as it were. And that I would do anything to protect you.”

Harry was silent for a moment, and then he snorted softly. “Justin must have hated that.”

Bob gave him half of a dangerous, feral grin. “Justin hated me for a lot of things, by the end. He hated my love for you most of all.” He nodded shortly, and then his expression cleared to tenderness. “I regret not a moment of the time I spent with you. I wish greatly that there could have been more. That I could have comforted you with a touch, every now and again.”

Harry eyed him, and then flicked his gaze to the table. “As you said, we have so much to make up for.” He raised an eyebrow in teasing challenge, and Bob scoffed mockingly. 

“Who is it that told me we have to concentrate on not getting killed, and then comes downstairs in such a state of undress as has me continually off balance? You told me you had some thought as to whom Justin’s connection might be?” he segued smoothly, preventing Harry from defending himself. Harry just grinned, and finished his ale.

“Just something Justin said once, in passing—I never thought it was significant, until now. He said that someone had come to town… someone who Mai was shacking up with.” Harry frowned, remembering. “And then he laughed, and said, ‘Harry, my boy, never fall in love. Love will always betray you, especially if the payoff is good enough.’ ”

Bob rocked back in his chair slowly, pensive. “Mai had a lover in town at the time.”

“And somehow, Justin had convinced that lover to betray her.” continued Harry. 

“And now, she wants to find said lover and betrayer again. And she’s using us to do so.” Bob shook his head, his eyes suddenly as wide as they could open. “Bloody fucking stars! And I know exactly why she brought me out, now. How could I have been so stupid?” He stood so abruptly that the chair slammed down into the floor, and stalked out of the room.

Harry, stunned and confused by this sudden change of mood, got up to follow, but Bob stalked back out again before he got two paces, holding his skull. Harry blinked at it. It was covered with runes and carved with designs, ancient and brittle, missing a few teeth and with a gaping hole in the back. It was this hole that Bob presented to Harry now. “Do you know how this got here?” demanded Bob.

“I always thought it was put there when you were murdered,” admitted Harry.

Bob shook his head, and paced, prowling like a cat, turning his skull over and over in his hands. “No, Mai cut off my head. The runes were inscribed as a permanent working. But…” He smiled bitterly. “My sentence was never to be for all eternity. There were runes here, too.” He poked a finger through the jagged hole. “Runes to release me.”

Harry had to sit down again. “Release? To let you die?”

“Exactly. After two hundred years, I was supposed to go on and face the Other Side, my punishment concluded, more or less.” He frowned, sitting next to Harry. 

“But Mai had other plans.” It wasn’t a question. Bob nodded slowly. 

“She wasn’t done with me. She wanted what I knew, the knowledge, the power. More time. I hadn’t been broken yet. So she did a working, with another. Another drake. Her lover, named Argyra. Broke the runes out of the skull, while I watched. And then she made the Key, from the essence of the runes and from their combined Will, which lifted the curse completely.”

Harry grinned despite himself. “And you’ve held it over her head ever since.”

Bob gave him a small, mischievous grin in return. “Of course. She was foolish to have done it. And once done, it could not be undone. Argyra came to resent it as much as I did, and Mai lost us both in the bargain.”

Harry had to ask the question. “Was Mai in love with you, Bob?”

Bob sighed. “It’s possible she thought she was. Like Justin thought he was. But they both wanted the power, and the knowledge. Both things, I might remind you, that you’ve never given one whit about.”

Harry met his eyes with an unimaginable gentleness. “Then you don’t have any reason to doubt that I love you.”

It was Bob’s turn to flail for words. He swallowed, breathing out, collecting scattered thoughts that had just erupted like birds from his mind. “Harry, you’re an insufferable romantic,” he finally breathed.

Harry grinned, and took the skull from his hands, pondering the hole in the back, and all the pieces they had tied together. It was big—as big as anything he had handled on an empty stomach. “Can we get lunch? And pick up our clothes for tonight? I think we should get out before we end up in bed.”

“You’re no fun, Harry.” pouted Bob. 

“There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why let you out?” Harry crossed his arms over his bare chest, his brow wrinkled.

“Two reasons, Harry. First, Mai owes me. What she did was wrong, and as you have been developing your power, she couldn’t ignore the fact that our relationship was the one that she longed for. It’s made her see things a little differently.”

“And that’s where the money came from, too?

Bob’s eyes sparkled. “Is coming, Harry. She’s into me for four hundred years of back pay. I’ll let you do the calculations.” Harry’s eyes got wide, but Bob continued. “But I won’t let you think that Mai’s doing this out of the goodness of her shriveled little drake heart. That would leave you with the wrong impression. The Key held the essence of her lover. And although Mai herself is being blocked from tracking Argyra…”

“You wouldn’t be.” Harry shook his head. “How nice for us.” 

“Mmmm, indeed,” agreed Bob. He reached out and stroked a finger down the line of Harry’s throat, causing Harry’s eyes to flutter closed. “But I’ve done worse. For much less.”

They stood for a moment, Bob tracing Harry’s collarbone to the hollow of his throat. Harry reached out, his hand closing on Bob’s hip and sliding around his waist, pulling him in. They were seconds from disaster, and all Bob could think about was tugging up the hem of his shirt to press his heated skin against Harry’s flat abdomen. With an inhumane effort he pulled himself together, settling for kissing Harry’s throat and cheek, and being kissed in return, just below his ear. Still, that nearly unhinged him. “Harry,” he murmured, “Get dressed. I’m keeping a tally of just how many times I’m going to fuck you senseless, just in case you’re concerned.”

He felt Harry’s strong hands tighten on him, and the younger man groaned softly. He didn’t even try to form words, but just gave Bob a dark look as he went upstairs to find a shirt and his boots, walking slowly.

Bob’s thoughts flickered briefly over the clothes they were picking up in a few hours. It was going to be a long night.


	7. Chapter 7

Dinner was a quick stop at a drive through for burgers and fries, something which Bob was dubious about until he smelled it, and then flat out refused. Harry ended up circling back around with much eye-rolling to get him a salad, which placated Bob slightly. Still, when they reached Barneys, Harry realized almost all of his fries were gone, and he gave Bob an outraged look that the older wizard deflected with a smirk, licking his fingers lightly. They trotted up the stairs together for the final fitting, and Charlie was there to greet them with an effusive smile and the entire ensemble laid out for each of them. 

“Mr. Dresden!” And softer, more intimately, “Robert, welcome. Please.” That was the extent of his speech. Bob stood to fit first, and Harry again found himself seated, bemused all over again by the effortless way in which Bob interacted with a world that he had been shut out of for well over half a millennium. Some things stayed the same, he supposed, and the relationship between a lord and his tailor would be one of those things. 

He had to admit, though, as the tuxedo came together, that he could see why the relationship was often a close one. Bob always looked good--always, no matter if he was in Harry’s jeans or when he was in his ghostly threads. But this was really, genuinely a work of art. The tux was black, the waistcoat was a soft blue grey that enhanced the color of Bob’s eyes and made Harry’s mouth water. Every hemmed line fit perfectly-- the dramatic dancer’s arch in his back, and the generous fighting muscle that rounded out every curve… and as Harry stared at Bob’s ass, he found himself a little addled, wondering just how a man got a backside that rounded and strong, imagining what it would feel like under his… he closed his eyes, and thought of trolls, vampires, the rent... Anything to prevent having a hard-on when it came his time to fit. 

All too soon, and before Harry had completely fought down all of his badly-timed sexual urges—it hadn’t helped that he had watched Bob take everything off-- it was his turn. As he stood up, slowly, Bob took one look at him and smiled rather cannily. “Why do you think I went first, my darling man?” Harry mock-scowled at him, and gave himself over to Charlie, who was the most professional man in the world, and whose businesslike manner had soon soothed Harry to perfect relaxation.

This wasn’t the first time he had stood for a fitting. Justin had made him do this all the time when he was younger, which spoke for his current wardrobe of vaguely potato-shaped and colored clothing. So he knew what to do and how to do it—what he wasn’t really prepared for was the look of blissful adoration on Bob’s face when he had everything on. 

Harry had never really considered himself an attractive man. Dark eyes, tall, a little sparse around the hairline—he was just a guy. Women slept with him, but didn’t take him home to meet their mothers. No one had ever taken his picture and told him he was pretty. Certainly, no one had ever, ever looked at him like Bob was looking at him now. Like the world could fall open and Chicago take a header right into the New Madras, and it would be a footnote. 

Harry was certain, right at that moment, that if he died and met God, he could describe, in perfect detail, love.

Bob stood and walked over to him, his head tilted in gentle perusal, lips parted slightly. And when their eyes met, Harry knew it was over. No more waiting. After the ball, regardless of whether Mai had her little problem solved or not, he was taking Bob to his bed, and possibly never surfacing again. Love like that waited on nothing—not gods, not monsters. He had been a fool to think otherwise. 

Evidently Charlie felt it too—they had finally breached the small man’s endless supply of cool. As Bob, mesmerized, reached for Harry, Charlie panicked and squeaked, “Gentlemen, the clothes!” Harry and Bob turned to him as one, looking slightly lost. Relieved, Charlie took Harry in hand, briskly divesting him of jacket and shirt and pants, and ushering him back into his own clothes. He straightened when everything was back in its proper place to find both men grinning at him, Harry a little sheepishly, Bob with gentle joy.

“Magnificent. You’re a genius, Charlie.” 

Charlie beamed back. “It’s an honor to serve.”

* * *

The car ride home was silent, both men lost in the same thoughts. Bob was spinning his pinky ring round and round on his finger, and then finally took it off, setting it adrift in the air in front of him with steady focus. Harry didn’t even notice until he happened to glance at a turn, and then his jaw dropped.

“Bob!” he exclaimed, but not too loudly, for sudden fear that the ring would embed itself in the wizard in a moment of lapsed concentration. At forty miles per hour and in the process of being supercharged with kinetic energy, the ring was a flesh-melting bullet. Bob merely lifted an eyebrow.

“Shush, Harry. I’m in need of a kinetic shield, and this is as good a time as any to put one together.”

“In a moving vehicle?” Harry choked out. He tried to shut up, but the gaping wouldn’t quite go away. Bob had drilled into him over and over the necessity of avoiding needless risk. Evidently, that caveat didn’t apply to Bob.

A throaty “Mmm,” was the only reply he received. And though the trip home suddenly seemed to Harry to take hours, Bob finished the evocation just before they pulled up to the door. He braked slowly and pulled to a stop just as the ring flashed a brilliant shade of gold and dropped into Bob’s waiting hand. “Lovely, Harry. Your timing is impeccable.”

Harry gave him his best look and carefully lifted both suits out of the back, suddenly certain that what he had just witness had been a trial by fire. Bob hadn’t done any magic in front of Harry yet, and Harry was suddenly certain that he had just witnessed the first bit of magic that Bob had done since he had be brought out. That it had been dangerous, even wrapped up in the seeming innocence of a simple evocation, was Bob’s way of proving to himself, and to Harry, that he could. The thought made Harry’s blood run hot and cold at the same time.

* * *

An hour later, a limousine pulled up to the front of Harry’s converted boarding house. The intervening time had been spent in a rush of showering, shaving, and general admiring and downright staring—Harry had, for the space of several minutes, spun a badger-hair brush around and around a shave cup while watching Bob run his hands up the long line of soft pearl buttons on his tailored grey shirt, until the resulting lather had foamed out onto his hands and he had jumped in surprise at the sensation of it. Bob had asked him, rather huskily, if he needed help shaving, and Harry had retreated behind the door, panting slightly.

Now, coats still bagged, they slid into the dark, cool leather interior of Mai’s custom limo, which she had given as her only instruction to Bob as to how they were getting to the Ball. Limo. Seven. Don’t ask questions. How very typically Mai, not to want them to know. Still, Bob slid the window between the back and the cab down so that he could speak to the driver. 

“Could you tell us when we will be arriving, please?”

The driver, a small woman of indeterminate age, smiled a soft, neutral smile. “Oh, around eight. The windows will be veiled, of course. We have to follow strict protocols, even to get you there.”

Bob smiled. “Very good. Give us a ten minute warning, dear lady?” She nodded, her smile deepening slightly. He shut the window with a click, and settled back into the soft leather with a cheshire grin. 

Harry sat across from him, idly thumbing the label on a bottle of wine, a 1982 Spanish red of excellent vintage. Their eyes met. The limo was rolling, and the veil fell over the windows, softening the outside to a perfect blur. Bob blinked softly. “I might not wait until I get you home tonight, Harry,” he voiced in a low purr. 

Harry eyed him, his irises darkening entirely to black with a desire he could no longer tame. When he spoke, his voice was whiskey-rough. “In the back of Mai’s limo in about seven thousand dollars worth of clothes, Bob?”

“Oh, yes. A thousand times, yes. And the best part is, she’ll know—psychic resonance, and all.” Bob positively gleamed, and Harry chuckled darkly, his expression dazed with lust. He reached over and took Bob gently by his immaculate lapels and slid their bodies together on the couch-like seats. 

Harry pressed his mouth, his lush, bee-stung lips full against Bob’s-- warm, wet, urgent, and Bob’s belly and groin exploded into cascading heat, melting through his hips and thighs. His teased Harry’s lips open with his tongue, sucking and kissing, feeling sharp nips of lightning bolt through him as Harry bit gently down on his bottom lip and tongue, murmuring love incantation all the while in hypnotic cadence. 

Harry’s fingers worked nimbly on the buttons of Bob’s waistcoat, carefully undoing the evening’s work in a few moments and helping him to shrug out of it. Bob laid it aside with half a thought, already tugging at the buttons of Harry’s, his precise touch making short work of them even with his eyes closed. The button-down shirts had to stay on, unfortunately, in the interest of time, and there was the matter of wrinkles, but two resourceful wizards could manage to work their way around such trivial matters. Bob just wanted to feel Harry’s heated skin under the thin layer of cream Italian silk, and his hands roamed even as his tongue found the thin skin under Harry’s ear, drawing a shuddery moan from the younger man.

Bob could feel Harry’s hands drifting downwards, his fingertips rolling over the hard abdominal muscles and flanks that had served Bob so well in his former life. The touch was enthralling—he bowed his head over Harry’s shoulder for a moment and breathed deep, reveling in the pure physical contact of the man that had loved for so long. “Too long, Harry…” he breathed. “Waited too long…” His voice was a bare whimper. Harry kissed his neck and throat, his breath hot. 

“M'here now. I’m sorry, never should have… couch…stupid.” He was panting too hard to form sentences, but Bob got it. He nodded.

“Stupid. Never listening… to you again.” He grinned against Harry’s mouth, eyes sparkling, and Harry drew back to look at him, laughter spilling over into joy.

“Never?” he mouthed, and Bob felt one long fine fingertip stroke along the length of his cock, over the fine wool trousers. His head rolled forward slightly as his muscles shuddered, and he clutched tightly at Harry’s hips, his brain focused on that one touch to the exclusion of all else.

“Blackmail…” he finally managed to voice, after a moment. Harry was already sinking down, soft, to the floor of the limo, his eyes soft and black and inescapably lovely. Bob searched for the words to tell him to wait, but all thought fled at Harry’s hands on the fly of his trousers, undoing the clasp, a look of wonder on his face. “Harry…” he murmured tenderly, as if that was the only word in the world with any meaning. Harry rose to him, kissed him deeply, his hand clinging to the back of Bob’s neck; his eyes squeezed shut with passionate grace, before sinking back down again and sliding his warmed fingers gently underneath Bob’s cock.

Bob keened softly, Harry’s touch like a deep current directly into his soul. Harry bowed his lips close to the tip, but did not touch it, and Bob could feel his breath whispering hotly, feather touching. Harry raised his eyes. “Did you ever dream about this, Bob?” His lips flickered against the very tip, right at the rift, and Harry licked the salty pearl that formed there with a delicate tongue. Bob stroked his hand through Harry’s thick curls, mouth half-open, lust-soaked. He nodded, slowly.

“I did, but not often, Harry. It was… painful. Dreams are too insubstantial. Better not to chase after them.”

Harry’s voice was whiskey raw, and his gaze fluttered down to tale in the length of Bob’s sex, as he stroked it slowly in his hand. “But you wanted me? As a lover?”

Bob heard the question behind the desire. “Oh, yes, Harry. God, yes. For quite longer than I imagine you were aware.” Harry’s hand tightened, and Bob’s hips rocked forward, his head falling back. 

“Oh, Bob… me, too.” he whispered roughly. “So long, since I was just a kid. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you…” And then, gently, Harry sucked the heart-shaped pink-bloomed tip into his mouth. 

Bob arched his back at the sudden and overwhelming sensation of blossoming fire that shot through him. For a moment, Harry just held himself still, sucking slowly and tugging, his tongue working back and forth as he listened to Bob’s breathing go ragged. Then, when he thought that Bob had waited long enough, Harry rolled his jaw in a slow and maddening circle, his tongue tip flicking lightly at the joining of head to shaft as Bob began to rock, and then writhe in his seat. Harry had to steady himself with one hand on Bob’s knees to keep up any semblance of a steady rhythm—the gentle rocking of the limo helped a bit.

Sucking rhythmically and scraping carefully with his teeth, Harry slowly, blissfully made his way further down in a slow spiral that had Bob making soft begging noises by the time Harry’s nose tickled the soft silver curls at the base of the shaft. With the head of Bob’s cock buried in his throat, Harry made the motion of swallowing, which caused Bob’s hips to buck against him and drew a growl from his lips. Harry’s own arousal strained against his trousers at the guttural lust in that sound—all the blood rushing to his penis made him a little light-headed. 

He started humming in his bad Latin, vibrating the head deep in his throat, and made his deliberate spiraling way back again. After several unhurried passes, Bob was reduced to inarticulate moaning, his hands softly tensing in Harry’s hair, his entire body vibrating, making Harry’s mouth water all the more. 

They rocked together in a swaying mantra with the rhythm of the car, and Harry moved with the urgency of Bob's hands, keeping in pace with the spasming of Bob's hips, until, feeling the tensing of thigh muscles under his hands, he pulled a long sucking drag up and down the length of Bob’s cock, drawing keening cries as Bob’s orgasm wracked his body and shook the car, eliciting a panicked shout from the driver as she tried to keep them on the road. 

The car rocked precariously, and then steadied, and the shout became a long stream of curses in various languages, some of which even Bob didn’t recognize. Ignoring her, the men reached for each other, Harry with the added incentive of keeping Bob from falling over, and they cradled each other for a long moment, trembling and flushed. 

Finally, Bob spoke, his cultured voice tinged with amazement. “Where on Earth did you learn that, my dear one?” Harry kissed him, a blush that had nothing to do with desire breaking over his cheeks.

“Boy Scouts,” he mumbled, and then grinned sheepishly. “My dad made me go—thought it would help me fit in.” Bob grinned back, stroking his thick, soft, wool-textured hair, and luxuriating in the caresses of his beloved, so long denied him.

Then his expression sobered slightly, and he blinked slowly, and brought Harry into focus, to make certain that he was listening. Still, his voice was just above a whisper. “I have never been so vulnerable as I have been with you, Harry. It should frighten me, the way my defenses fail so completely when I am with you.” He fell silent, allowing himself to be held for a moment, before the intoxicating scent of Harry’s skin drew him into soft kisses, trailing fire down Harry’s throat. “The world goes away. You are all that’s left.”

Harry stroked his cheek. “Us, a bottle of good Spanish red, and a pissed-off limo driver.” His eyes were at half-mast, his voice whiskey-edged and gentle. Bob shook his head.

“Forget the driver, Harry.”

Harry raised his eyebrows slightly. “And the wine?”

“You’re the wine, ignisis.”

I've seen the nations rise and fall   
I've heard their stories, heard them all   
but love's the only engine of survival   
Your servant here, he has been told   
to say it clear, to say it cold:   
It's over, it ain't going   
any further   
And now the wheels of heaven stop   
you feel the devil's riding crop   
Get ready for the future:   
it is murder …

Things are going to slide ...

Leonard Cohen—“The Future” 

The light beyond the veiled windows blurred into darkness. Despite all possible precautions the Council might have taken, Bob and Harry both knew exactly where they were, having placed a locator spell on the one thing on the car that wasn’t shielded against such things—themselves. As the limo barreled through the gloaming, Harry felt it move across ley lines and along the more prosaic lines of the map page he had charmed and tucked in his jacket pocket—had he had the wherewithal to check it, from his comfortable cradle sprawled with one thigh across Bob’s lap. But he was entirely certain of one thing—they were going in circles. Or rather, one big circle. The ball was being held in Chicago, or close by. He flicked his eyes toward the map pocket, and Bob just rolled his eyes, as if to say, Wizards, and their secrets… 

Dismissing it all for the moment, Bob stroked back Harry’s hair, his pale eyes sensually sleepy, and bowed to kiss Harry’s forehead, his lips trailing through the soft curls at his temples. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, the younger wizard sigh a soft lilting whisper, and for a moment Bob was struck with the simple childlike trust that Harry placed in his hands. He tried to imagine any other wizard giving him such complete and total sway, here in the back of a limo, with no witnesses, and nowhere to escape. It gave him, ironically, a dangerously hot feeling of protectiveness. “You give me too much, my sweet child.”

Harry’s lips curled up in a smile tinged with lazy wickedness. “All this time, I could have bashed your skull to dust, or tossed it in the Chicago River, and you could have done nothing but watch… and now I’m in your hands, Bob. I’m every inch yours, to the blood and bone.” He opened his dark eyes, and found Bob watching him, rapt. “Yours. Is it any different, now, than it was a week ago?”

Bob found his vision a little blurry, and blinked to clear it. “If you’re using the word ‘different’ meaning ‘altered’, then yes, I should say so. The main difference being that I have a tailor.” He grinned, a little watery, and Harry grinned back.

“Make that that I have a tailor, Bob. I never thought in a million years…” he trailed off, reaching up to stroke Bob’s dove-grey hair, right behind his ear. “… that I would be able to touch you,” he finished. 

“I thought about it quite often,” Bob admitted, his fingertips trailing down Harry’s throat to his chest. “Thought about what I would do first…” He grimaced, his thoughts taking a different track than his touch, which spiraled down to just below Harry’s ribcage, tracing the bow of his abdomen underneath the warming silk. “Knocking you senseless and tying you up like a helpless sacrifice for your dead uncle wasn’t exactly right there at the forefront of my fantasies.” 

“No?” Harry breathed, his own hands finding their way over Bob’s knees and calves, in awe at the firm muscle he found there. Bob’s hands were making short work of his thoughts, and his breath. 

A sudden pounding startled them both. “Ten minutes, gentlemen!” shouted the driver, with something like relief in her voice pitching it up higher than before. Bob closed his eyes and collapsed back against the seat, and then he fell forward across Harry, growling in frustration. 

Harry chuffed with lazy laughter. “Oh, baby, we need to start hiring our own help.” Bob turned his head to look up Harry’s long body at the younger man’s dark eyes, a world-weary smile on his lips. Harry fingered Bob’s waistcoat and tossed it at him, and for once, Bob didn’t complain at the ill use of his clothes. He sighed, and tugged it on, hands a little unsteady at the buttons. Harry was far worse off, though, barely able to focus through his lust-saturated brain. “Stones, this is going to be a long night,” he murmured.

Bob nodded, sobering. “And both of us horrifically distracted, just as you predicted, you irritating bastard.”

Harry gazed him, lips parted, eyes hot enough to melt glass. “I should cash it all in and become a fortune teller.”

Bob snorted. “With a skull instead of a crystal ball.” He reached across to Harry and began to tuck in his shirt and brush back his unruly hair, his hands lingering longer than necessary. Harry just closed his eyes and gave himself over to Bob’s gentle ministrations. 

The limo rolled to a halt on a smooth driveway, and the two men heard the click of heels as the driver got out and walked to the door. There was a perceptible hesitation as she paused before opening the door, and Harry and Bob shared a delighted glance, imagining her steeling herself. Then the door opened, and she stood tightly, eyes turned resolutely away. “We’ve arrived, sirs. The car will be here when you… require it.”

Bob slid out of the car with a barely perceptible hint of regret, and Harry handed him out his jacket, which he handed off to the driver. She held it for him while he turned, and she helped him into it, her expression grudgingly more accepting. He shook it out, and turned, and Harry’s heart bottomed out. He didn’t think he would ever get used to this. Bob gave him a warm, private smile, and Harry had to take a couple of deep breaths before he could step out of the car. Bob helped him into his own jacket, and smoothed it across his shoulders with considerably more familiarity than Charlie would have used. 

Thus clothed, and prepared as best as they could be with the limited information Mai had given them, they turned toward the residence, a beautiful old plantation house secluded inside gates and heavy, columned greenery. The house looked like it would have been quite at home in Savannah rather than in Chicago, and Harry scented ensorcelled gardens. No, that wasn’t suspicious or hard to find. He squeezed Bob’s wrist, and then they parted, and entered the house, to find what they would find.

“The Wizards Dresden and Bainbridge.”

They were announced almost as they set foot across the threshold, which tingled with curtailed magic. Wards, taken down just for the night. Harry glanced at the doorman, a nondescript dark-haired man who gave them both a razor smile that had too many teeth and ushered them onward with a wave of his gloved hand into a room that had, moments before, been full of the bubble of conversation. 

And what a collection of people it was. The elite of the wizarding world were gathered here tonight, as Bob had been given to understand—the ‘royalty’ of the Blood. These were the most powerful of the wizarding families, and the oldest, and the richest- often all three. And they had turned out in style. Everywhere was the glimmer of color—women dressed in gravity-defying gowns, leather and lace and satin and silk of every imaginable shade. The men wore slightly less colorful clothing, but the flash of waistcoat and kerchief was tantalizing amidst the black and grey, and the richness of fabric more than made up for the lack of vivid color. 

It was clear that some had been dancing, and those that had held their charming poses, faces turned toward the door. Others were merely frozen in conversation amidst the glittering starlight walls and ceiling glamours. All had their attention fixed on the newcomers. The silence was breathless. 

Harry went first, and Bob followed slightly behind, a deadly shadow, sharp-eyed and remote. A non-sanctioned ball, a gathering of practitioners in a private house was rare, but that didn’t mean that everyone in the large and well-appointed room didn’t know who the Wizard Dresden was. Or rather, Morningway. On that bloodline, and with the raw power behind Harry’s magic, he was a prince here, at the very least. And he looked like one, too, Bob thought with immense satisfaction. 

There were far, far fewer who recognized the significance of the name Bainbridge, but Bob could taste the silence of those who did. Curiosity, only, at the thought of the odd young wizard bringing his pet ghost to the ball. Feeling cheeky, he murmured Harry’s name softly. Harry turned to him with that same look in his eye, and casually leaned in, taking Bob by the arm as he did so. The room’s overarching curiosity turned instantly to a palpable and icy shock… and amazement, and fear. Harry murmured in Bob’s ear, “They thought you were still a ghost?” Bob nodded, grinning wickedly, his cheek warm against Harry’s. “Well, this is going to be fun.”

Bob’s gaze flicked lightly around the room as Harry turned serenely away. He recognized few by face, but was certain he knew almost everyone here by name and reputation. Slowly, steps haltingly tripped toward them. Bob refocused his attention on a small woman who looked damnably familiar. He felt Harry tense by his side, ready for the house to come down. “Bainbridge?” she whispered. “Are you Hrothbert of Bainbridge?”

Bob gave a little formal bow that made Harry envious. “I am, lady. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The small woman smiled brightly. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I worked with young Justin Morningway, many years ago. I was his tutor for a… short while. Mrs. Larkin.”

Bob blinked, taken aback. The old woman walked up and lay a trembling hand on his wrist. And then, to the astonishment of the room, which erupted in murmurs, she gave him a brisk hug. “I’m so glad you found your way through. I always thought so much of you.”

Bob nodded. “Justin would occasionally hide my skull in the garden.” He remained noncommittal, but his expression was gentle. She put a small hand to her mouth, and laughed, a rich musical sound that was too big for her frail body.

“He did lead us a merry chase.”

“That he did, madam. That he did.”

She leaned in, then, and kissed his cheek, and then gave Harry a sweet smile before walking back out into the crowd. The conversational murmur erupted into a chattering wall of sound. If they hadn’t known his name, they knew him by reference and reputation, now. There was no escaping the public eye—for better or for worse, Bob had been outed. Harry grinned after Mrs. Larkin. “There was no tutor in House Morningway, was there, Bob?”

“Not a bit of it, Harry. Although Justin did steal my skull once and bury it in the garden.” Bob turned to Harry, his eyes glittering. Harry raised his eyebrows lightly.

“Oh? Who found it? Wait—I think I know this one. Little lady, about yea high, likes beating the crap out of me?”

“That’s about the shape of things.” Bob sighed. “Well, go mingle, Harry. Let’s go be the eyes and ears of the Ancient Meddler.” He turned briefly toward Harry, and his fingertips brushed across Harry’s hand, already reaching for him. They broke apart. 

Bob was soon surrounded by wizards who wanted to touch him, to confirm for themselves that the Wizard Bainbridge had indeed been released from his prison. He was immediately embroiled in political tangles, solicitations for sex, and proposals from older wizards, male and female, who didn’t distinguish between politics and sex. Bob smiled his sultry, dark smile, and remembered. He touched many, and remembered the flavor of auras. He soulgazed no one. 

One dainty little wizard, not more than twenty, had thrown herself at him with such reckless abandon than he had been afraid for the integrity of his silk stitching, and had held her off with a firm hand and demanded to know whatever it was that she was sacrificing her life for. She pouted prettily for a moment, and then dragged him into a corner, where she proceeded to delineate her rational for wanting to join her House to his, and the political alliance that would be an advantage to them both. And then, when he didn’t seem committed to her liking, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him, banking on her nubile body and waiflike charm to carry her point.

Every air molecule within two square meters vanished in a choking, lung-scouring hash of ozone. She drew breath and gagged, tried again, and panted, unable to fill her lungs. Bob watched her sag to the floor, her arms fluttering weakly. He shook his head, and released the charm that held the air back from their little private corner. “No, thank you,” he said quietly. “Next time, you might do me the favor of trusting my sincerity.” He walked away without offering her a hand, and Harry, who had seen the last few moments of the encounter, knew how lucky the girl was to have escaped so lightly. The music started up, from somewhere, and wide-eyed guests skirted around Bob to go to the dance floor. He received fewer propositions after that.

Harry, in contrast, had been surrounded by the lushest of the crowd, and they had very little of politics on their mind. Bob certainly wasn’t surprised, what with Harry’s olive complexion still flushed with lust, his eyes obsidian dark-- he looked like a young Dionysus in a gorgeous tux. Women and men all over the room had swayed his direction as soon as he had walked in the room, and as soon as he had parted from the man that had so clearly owned him, he had been pulled into a swirl of men and women trying to entice him away. A risky occupation, considering what Hrothbert of Bainbridge was capable of, but the Wizard Dresden was a worthy prize, and then some. 

Bob looked over every so often and grinned at his lover’s hapless expression, but for the most part allowed Harry to flail through on his own—it was excellent practice for him to be found so desirable. However, one young man brought such an expression of anger to Harry’s face that Bob ambled over, curious as to who would attempt to displease Harry in public.

The man was extremely beautiful, and for a moment Bob thought he might be White Court. His green eyes were slanted in lovely symmetry, and his cheekbones could have cut glass. He frowned at Bob’s approach, and turned urgently back to Harry. “Why settle for an aging queen, when you could be one with the Knights of the Coin? Dresden, consider.” Bob narrowed his eyes. Something about the way the boy had announced his little organization sounded ominous, as if there was more to it than a club for sex and pleasure. As if the so-called Coin might be an artifact of some note. He filed it away, like he filed everything else, and turned his attention to the boy, amusement flickering in his eyes. Harry was just angry, and he wondered what hideous cultural slur the chit had just landed on him.

“A queen, you say?” His voice was deadly soft, a thin rapier under the throat, a tickle of steel. The boy turned to him, as did Harry, his expression troubled. “I wonder if you’ve ever played the game, young one. Need I remind you how she moves, and whom she murders, and with what power and swiftness? And the knight, a drunkard, hopping about the board—often the first to be sacrificed.” As he spoke, the boys eyes had gotten wider and wider, as Harry’s had narrowed.

The boy swallowed, regrouping, and sallied. “The knight will come upon you when you aren’t looking, my friend.” But his eyes were trailing over Bob, over his strong stance and dancer’s ease. His gaze lingered on Bob’s hands, and his throat, and the curve of his back, and the mistake he had made registered in his eyes.

“I’m never not looking. Friend.” Bob’s voice was a deadly whisper, a whistling blade. The moment hung there, dripping with tension. And then Bob, gently, as if he was cautious of frightening away a wild buck, lifted his hand and touched the boy under the chin, his fingertip gliding over his jawline and down his throat. “Remember.” The boy’s eyes fluttered closed, even as he fought against it. He backed away from Bob’s touch with what seemed an inhumane effort, his lips parted, and stared at them both strangely, before turning and melting into the crowd. After a moment, Harry turned to Bob with a trace of amusement in his eyes.

“Quit stealing my boyfriends.”

“Queen? Was that supposed to be an insult, Harry?”

Harry looked embarrassed. “It’s meant to reference older men who love young men and dress in women’s clothes. Backfired spectacularly.”

“Hmm.” Bob pondered for a moment. “In my time, no one would have thought to showcase their sexual preference on the outside. Wizards and powerful normals alike tended to sleep with power or knowledge, regardless of the body it happened to be in.” He fell very quiet, and Harry guessed that he was thinking of Winefride. Bob turned to him, and smiled softly. “My old colleagues would think little of me to know that I loved you, not for your considerable talent or for your House, but out of wonder at the beauty of your heart, your intelligence… your loyalty and love.”

“Don’t forget my fantastic cooking,” Harry murmured, and Bob smirked. His hands trembled at his sides, wanting so badly so take hold of Harry, to sink them both to the floor, to hear to sound of jade buttons skittering across the marble tiles. Harry spoke first. “How long does this party last, anyway?”

“It’s already lasted longer than I can bear.”

“You feel anything? The essence of Mai’s lover anywhere?”

“Harry, I’ve been wide open all night. Either she’s not here or she’s blocking me.” He frowned. “Both unfortunately equally likely.”

Harry looked a little taken aback at that. “How is it possible to block an essence tracking? That’s like… trying to hide the smell of flowers in a room full of ‘em.”

Bob chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, shaking his head. “You would cover the scent up with something stronger.”

Harry frowned. “Or you would ruin the nose of the hound.” He looked uncomfortably at Bob. “What if that wasn’t Mai, who touched you first? Did you scent anything right when you walked in the room?”

Bob stared at him, but was interrupted roughly by the last person in the world he expected to see.

Morgan.

The Warden looked ruffled. Although he was dressed well, he wasn’t dressed for a formal occasion, and for once he looked immensely out of place. His tie was slightly askew, and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. But his voice was firm. “Dresden. Now. A moment, Bob, if you don’t mind?” Bob raised his eyebrows at Harry, and Harry shrugged. Morgan grabbed Harry by the arm and swung him around and through a side door. Bob shook himself, thinking back to when he had first stepped in the room. His mind was swirling, and he forced himself to focus, reaching down to his center of calm. There was something that he was missing… something right when they had come in…

“Bainbridge! Have you seen Morgan?”

Bob threw down his hands, his temper snapping. “Dammit, Mai, I am trying to concentrate here. What? Yes. He took Harry through there.” He pointed, and then registered that Mai’s face had lost a few shades of color. She did not move to follow her Warden through the door right away, but instead took Bob by the arm, her grip surprisingly strong. 

“We have a problem, Hrothbert.” He forgot everything else in that moment at the sound of something he had never heard before in her voice. It was nerves. “I just came from Morgan’s townhouse. He’s been taken. There was a fight. He didn’t go quietly.” Bob wasn’t mistaken that he heard pride in her voice. He tore himself away from her and covered the ten meters to the room in a few bare strides. It was empty, of course, the window open.

Harry was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

With the appearance of Ancient Mai, the glitterati of the wizarding world had cleared out in a nearly silent rush that could have just as easily been explained by the earth opening up and swallowing them whole as by teleportation and glamours, leaving the two of the most dangerous wizards in the world to themselves. Bob turned back into the main room with an expression that hung between panicked and livid. He turned on Mai like a thunderstorm, his voice a guttural roar.

“What the fuck is going on?” He stalked toward her. “We go no further until you tell me everything that you should have told us to begin with!” The air directly in contact with him sizzled and crackled, and Mai actually stepped back, her eyes betraying a glimmer of surprise, before she composed herself and slipped back into the cool blankness that characterized her dealings with him, almost to the letter. 

“What do you think you have need to know, my Lord of Bainbridge?” she asked, icily sarcastic. Her small, sharp teeth glinted with the ferocity she was concealing. A small fraction of his mind belatedly registered that she was wearing something soft… an apple-green dress that fell off one shoulder and exposed a frail-looking collarbone and a delicate chain of jade chips that wound around her neck many times. This same sliver of his mind tried to shake the other, larger part, to no avail. Whatever it was, it wasn’t important enough to break through his immediate and burning fury. He shook his head roundly, eyes openly scornful.

“Oh, no. No. More. Games. Your former lover came in here in the guise of your Warden, and took Harry.” Bob stalked her with chilling menace innate to a predator of the deepest, darkest corners of the world, until he stood a mere handbreadth away. She was forced to gaze up at him or back away, and for a moment, her dark eyes met his, her expression unfathomable. He feared no soulgaze from her—he already knew what secrets she held, and she, his. But before he even felt the tug of her soul, she turned away from him, a frown grazing her lips.

Her voice was deadly soft. “You already figured it out, Bainbridge, but not soon enough. She got to you first, when you weren’t paying attention, and you were tricked.”

His voice was equally quiet. “This is no trick, Mai. I love him.” He took her by the arms, bowing down to where he could look her in the eye. 

She scowled back at him. “So get him back.” Her words fell like stones in a deep pool of water. Bob wanted nothing more than to tear her flesh from her bones with his teeth. He fixed her with a glare that would have wilted granite. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me. Something vital.”

“Yes. It sounds a lot like shut the fuck up and lets get moving, Bainbridge. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

“No.” A deadly gleam lit him then, from the inside, and her delicate brow puckered. “No,” he repeated. “Not quite enough.” He stepped into his fencing manoeuvers as easily as he had begun to breathe again, and he overbalanced her right into his arms. Mai didn’t have a chance to react as he threaded his hands tightly through her hair and pressed his mouth down on hers.

Her pure icy shock splashed across his skin like winter lakewater, but he didn’t let her go. With the few seconds he thought he might have before she flayed his skin from his bones, his lips searched hers with an ancient magic, older than written spells and spoken cantrips. As old, possibly, as love itself, or at least jealousy. She writhed against him in fury but he held her fast, the escalating heat building up inside their little circle enough, unchecked, to reduce both him and the fine Savannah mansion to embers and oblivion within a few dozen heartbeats. 

And then, to his very great wonder, the deadly heat ebbed, became ardor, and she was clinging to him, kissing him, and he, her. Two deadly enemies, who had broken every promise they had ever made to one another, and who had hated with the truest hate possible for those that walked this side of the Nevernever, they sought out one another’s true hearts within an intimate embrace of fire and magic. For one long moment, the jagged breach between them was liquid heat, and light, and flesh, and essence. Then, it was gone, the scar already fading. 

Uncounted centuries of dislike, frustration, anger, betrayal, and loathing-- so much dust, now. A new bond had been forged between them in the moments making of this ancient magic-- neither one would die by the other’s hand… on purpose, at least. Everything else personal between them could wait—maybe forever.

Mai stilled against him, breathing slightly less than perfectly steady, her wrists still held in his hands, her mouth still touching his mouth. “I need to trust you, Bainbridge,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to do that.”

Bob was breathing a little harder, the knowledge he had gained from the kiss making his mind reel. Everything snapped into place at once, and he wanted to break the little dragon in half, and spin her around the room, both at once. He took two breaths and lowered her hands. “Morgan loves you, Mai,” he said quietly. “He loves you… just as you love him.”

She went deathly still. “How do you know this?”

“He came to us the night after you set me free. He was in agony that you had done it. Everything in his Code told him to kill me where I stood.” Bob took a deep breath, his hands on her wrists wanting to shake her, so that he had to still the impulse before it reached his fingertips. “But because you wished it, he did nothing. And walked out broken. This is your power over him. This is his love for you.”

Mai tasted this, scented it on the night air for one long moment. Bob watched her, and waited. Finally, she stepped away from him, sliding away from his embrace, and their tacit agreement not to kill each other. “Take me to him. You still can, can’t you?” Her eyebrow rose with some shadow of her normal snarky self. “Or has my hound been ruined? Have I raised you for nothing?”

He frowned, ignoring her estimation of his worth for the moment. “I may be able to track your former lover. But I can certainly track Harry.”

Mai narrowed her eyes. “It will require the same kind of essence tracking, Bainbridge. Did you bleed him in the car?”

He smirked at her, and she pinked. “You didn’t. You didn’t. Dammit, that’s my limo, Bainbridge! Fucking phoenix char, do you have any idea how long that kind of psychic impression takes to scour?”

“Language, Mai. You should be grateful Harry’s so solicitous, because he went down on me. All I have is his saliva.” Bob tugged out a silk handkerchief that had been carefully, lovingly folded. 

Mai blinked, a keen glint in her eye vanishing almost as fast as it appeared. Then she threw up her hands, her mouth snapping shut with a click. “Do the spell, thrice-cursed necromancer.”

“Take me to Harry’s lab. You should be able to port us there, since we can’t be more than a few miles.”

She gave him a Look, reacting as much to his tone as to the truth in his words. Then without speaking, she grabbed his wrist, and he felt a tug as the Nevernever opened up and swallowed them both.

* * *

True to his word, Bob cast the spell that gave them a strong tracking due north. Mai pondered the small crystal that glowed purplish-black, suspended from its leather thong threaded through Bob’s fingers. She was silent for so long that Bob thought to break the silence, took a breath to do so, and got a small fingertip pressed to his lip for his trouble. Snippy little… he narrowed his eyes at her, and went upstairs to shrug out of his dress clothes, and to give her time to think.

Ten minutes later, in the heaviest jeans he could find, he cast about for Harry’s duster and staff, which was unfortunately in the working of a hockey stick. He sighed, vowing to carve his own as soon as they got out of this mess, and whirled the staff around in his hand. Sword… sword… he cast about for Harry’s unused saber, and found it in the umbrella stand in the corner. How glad he was that he had insisted that Harry have one, even though he didn’t use it. Something else he would rectify, as soon as he had Harry back in his hands. Mai watched him making these preparations in studious silence, and then raised an eyebrow. 

“Just how do you think you’re getting there, Bainbridge? Walking? Argyra, last we spoke, made her home in an aery.” She had an immense sense of satisfaction about her, as if that were the end of the argument. 

Bob smiled softly. “Walk? I don’t think so. We’re flying there. And you’re giving me a ride, love.”

She stared at him. “I’m giving you a ride?” Her voice was nothing short of incredulous, and her expression conveyed exactly what she thought of his breeding. “You’re no Rider, Bainbridge.”

“No, but Morgan was, wasn’t he?” Bob murmured softly. 

Her expression snapped shut—he was surprised he didn’t hear the slamming of a door. 

Bob’s voice was soft and deadly, a sword blade slicing through velvet. “You will not go in and do this alone. You will take me. Or you will kill me. Here. Now.” He shook the staff slightly, and green lightning crackled along the shaft. “Because I am prepared to die for Harry. However, I would much rather do it fighting for him, than fighting against you… as we have so recently reached pax.”

Mai gazed at him, and at the staff that coruscated violently. She scented the power that he held and was willing to discharge, and she sighed. “This. Is love?”

He nodded slowly, as if to a small child. For a moment, she looked small, and vulnerable. She swallowed.

“I will carry you. Once.”

“And back again. All of us. Harry, too.”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Fine! Whatever!” She stormed outside. Bob grabbed the tracking crystal, unwilling to wait for her to change her mind, and followed after.

In the warm night air, Mai took a deep breath, gazing at him as if daring him to say anything, to anyone. He didn’t rise to the bait. And then, with a shake, she was suddenly huge.


	9. Chapter 9

Bob tried very hard not to stare, but even in his immeasurable experience, there were few things he had seen up close that were as magnificent as a full-grown fire drake, and it had been so long... In the moonlight her hide was covered with iridescent scales that shimmered hypnotically in shades of molten fire. She was slender for a dragon, he knew, but from nose to tail she could have taken up three parking spaces outside of Harry’s building. Her delicate head turned to him, predator’s obsidian eye flashing dark fire deep within. “Coming, Bainbridge, or are you just going to gawk?”

That made him jump. Just because he had never ridden a dragon didn’t mean that Mai had to know that he was a virgin Rider—it would be her style to mercilessly needle him about his clumsy seat for the rest of the time he was on earth. He knew the basics, from his apprenticeship, and leapt lightly up upon her back, swinging the leather sash he had found in Harry’s lab around her breast and catching it with his other hand. It was all he would be allowed. He slid quickly up and hooked his calves under her wings, tightening the sash around his crossed arms, as she leapt into the sky. 

Oh! His breath left him in a sucking draft as Chicago plummeted down behind them, and he fought the instinctual urge to shout for joy. He knew she would never forgive him for that. Riding her wings was one thing—enjoying it was entirely another. But… oh, how he had dreamt of this. He had forgotten, as time and betrayal had intervened. It all came rushing back, as sharp and knife-cutting as the wind.

They flew swiftly over the neighborhoods that when stitched together made up one of the greatest metropolitan complexes in the world. Perched on dragonback as he was, Bob could see the crosshatching streets as a fine golden lace threaded with the white and blue tracings of headlights. The city was vast. They cleared its outskirts within minutes. 

Once Bob had been in the air for a few minutes and he had unobtrusively caught his breath, he tugged his hand free of the leather thong and dangled the crystal in the rushing air. Despite the wind turbulence, it pointed unerringly a few degrees west of their current heading. He nudged Mai with his left knee. “Alter course two degrees west, Mai, darling.”

“Don’t call me that, Bainbridge,” she rasped at him, her true form not altering her charming, razor-sharp alto. But she altered course, her muscles shifting underneath his thighs, her nose pointing now as the crystal did. He grinned where she couldn’t see him.

“What shall I call you, then?”

There was a barely perceptible pause. “Call me as you did when first we met… youngling.”

Had the crystal not been threaded through his fingers, Bob would have dropped it. He took a deep breath. “I hardly think your ego could stand the strain, Ancient,” he murmured. She chuckled, her body between his thighs chuffing gently, and said no more. Point to Mai. 

The journey stretched long, and thoughts of Harry began to claw at the walls that had been strong enough, in time of decisiveness, to keep Bob from worrying. He tried to distract himself by running through the constellations. The Great River was beautiful, now that they were up high enough to be away from all the light pollution that the modern cities of America produced. It helped, a little. Every so often he would check the crystal and nudge Mai to the west or to the east. 

Bob knew that Mai was racing to catch up. She was fast, and he was a lighter, sleeker burden than an unconscious wizard hanging from the claw. The crystal told him that Harry was still alive. That was all that mattered. That was all that mattered. And finally, when his worry overcame him, he bowed down over Mai, trying to reduce any drag he might be producing, and slipped his hands around her neck, squeezing her tight. She growled deep inside and somehow found the strength to fly faster.

After an indeterminate amount of time, when he was stiff and soaked through with the cold, the crystal began to tug downwards in his hand. “Down, down, Ancient,” he spoke against her hide. She tented her light, powerful wings just as he tensed his muscles, hanging on for his life, and they rolled into a slow, spiraling dive. Bob watched the crystal carefully until he was certain that they hadn’t gone wrong. Suddenly, Mai stiffened.

“I can scent her. Not a word, Necromancer. Do what I say.”

Bob frowned. “As you will it, Ancient, so long as Harry is safe.”

“I am here for Morgan, as I am here for the Coin and the end of Justin’s treachery. No one will leave without Morgan’s safety assured.” Her voice was tense, a thousand bows with arrows fitted, ready to fly. 

“I will look after them both. You have my word.”

“As a Necromancer?” she shot back.

“As a Wizard,” he returned calmly, though he didn’t feel it. “We’ve come too far for you to fail to trust me now.”

They alighted on the roof of a building he hadn’t even seen. He jumped off even as she transformed again, back into the deceptively frail woman that had marked him, many lifetimes ago, as Irredeemable. His muscle memory served him well, and he was on his feet with immaculate grace even as she was unwinding the leather thong from her body.

“So we have, Hrothbert of Bainbridge.” Something in her eyes told him that they were far from finished with this. But she nodded. It was done, for now. “They will be here, on the roof. Drakes never keep their meals inside their aeries.” And in a flicker of dark smoke, she was gone.

Chilled by that thought, Bob cast about him, willing light up from his hand and sending it flying in all four directions with firefly swiftness. Smooth flatness greeted him on three sides, but on the fourth, to the east, were two lumpy ball-shapes suspended above the roofline. He heard a crashing sound, and a scream from below, and it spurred his steps. Dashing across the roof as quietly as he could, he came upon the first of the two woven cages to find Harry, bound and gagged, watching him with worried eyes.

“Harry!” Bob freed up his belt dagger and worked his way over to the latch on the door. He saw that Harry’s hand was reaching out of the cage and hanging on to Morgan’s, and he glanced at the Warden. Morgan was unconscious, and his skin, even in the silvery moonlight, was dull and lifeless. Bob cut through the latch and climbed into the cage, tugging the gag from Harry’s mouth.

“Bait… you know that we’re bait, right?” Harry’s voice was thready. Bob’s hands smoothed over him but didn’t find any major cuts, no blood. He nodded impatiently.

“Yes, of course. Are you hurt, Harry?” He couldn’t help the tremor that shook his voice slightly.

Harry swallowed. “Been keeping Morgan alive. He… he almost had bled out… when I got here.” 

Bob looked at Harry, and then at Morgan. The Warden was almost gone. Another crashing scream sounded from below, and green fire shot from a window, making a new hole in the side of the aery. Harry was weak, but they had a chance, if they left now, of escaping. Or, they could stay with Morgan, and try to keep him alive, sacrificing all hope for escape and defense, as Bob had promised Mai. He gritted his teeth, the promise throbbing in his skull.

It would be so easy to just let Morgan die.

Harry was still clinging to Morgan, using his life-force to keep the Warden, who had never been his friend, from falling over the edge. 

And Bob knew that Harry would never let Morgan die. It wrenched at him, and just like that, his decision was made. “Can you move, Harry?”

“I think so. Yeah.” Harry was listless, but as Bob sliced through his bonds he seemed to gain a little more strength. Harry swung his legs over the edge of the cage and dropped to the ground. Together, they unlatched Morgan’s cage and hauled the Warden out, laying him flat on the cool stone tiles of the rooftop. 

“Take off his shirt. I need you to find the strength to make a shield, Harry. An orb shield, just in case something comes from below. Can you do that?” He handed Harry his staff, and then hurriedly tugged his own shirt off, exposing his pale, almost luminescent skin to the moonlight. Harry blinked, and then shook his head.

“No, Bob. You’ll be completely vulnerable. I can’t fight a drake.” But he numbly unbuttoned Morgan’s torn shirt as he spoke, exposing the Warden’s heavy muscle structure and two huge parallel gashes that cut across his abdomen. The Warden’s chest was also burned black over his heart, and blistered. It was a miracle he had survived this long. 

Bob’s mouth was set in a firm line. “I promised Mai I would save him if I could. We will let her take care of the drake. You shield us from crossfire. I will work the healing.” His tone brooked no argument, and Harry wrenched himself away, taking the staff in his hands and slamming it down on the ground. He was exhausted, but he would find something, somewhere, to protect Bob. He found his fear right on the surface, and reached deeper for anger, at being drawn in, at being used. Especially anger at Mai, for using Bob the way she did, when he could not retaliate. It boiled, and he took it and molded it into a working, and channeled it into the staff. The shield shimmered into existence, bright and strong. 

Now all he had to do was hold the wall. Bob, on the other hand, had to hold back Death. Harry glanced over his shoulder at Bob, at his pearled skin reflecting the soft moonlight in rippling shadows as he sank down over Morgan, and closed his eyes. He decided that maybe it would be better not to watch. The quick and dirty empathy healing that Bob was working on Morgan was both painful and incredibly intimate, and many who experienced it became lovers afterward—the deepest magic was like that, coming from blood and sex and pain. Bob had known a great deal of that kind of magic, although he had refused to teach young Harry Dresden very much of it. In fact, Harry could only recall two occasions where Bob had finally broken down and agreed to teach him spells that required neither evocation nor thaumaturgy. They had both been… extremely memorable. Harry shoved the memory away, gritted his teeth, and channeled the additional jealousy back into the shield, telling himself it was necessary. That Bob didn’t have any feeling for Morgan beyond keeping him alive. He concentrated on the shield, and doing his part in that. Everything else could wait—either that, or they would all die, and it wouldn’t matter. Happy thoughts.

Bob pressed his body down on Morgan’s—abdomen to abdomen, pectoral to pectoral, thigh to thigh, and he cradled Morgan’s head in his hands. Not in another thousand years would he have ever thought he would be here now, doing this. For Harry, he wouldn’t have hesitated even this much, but he was essentially taking himself out of the fight now. Bob wasn’t accustomed to depending on other people to protect him—certainly not when he had come ready to tear into the bitch that had stolen away the only person in the world he cared about. Now he was leaving Harry vulnerable to save the life of a man he didn’t even like, on the off-chance that Mai could pull a miracle out of her ass and beat a drake that had been prepared for her arrival. Ridiculous. It didn’t bear thinking about. 

The spell was simple, as long as you were a masochist—As to you, so to me. Ut vobis, sic volo. Bob sighed, and then murmured it, calling up the deep magic, and thus invoking the transfer of pain and damage from Morgan to himself, and so away. Ut vobis, sic volo… He felt it begin, and gasped. The hurt, after centuries of a sensory fog, was stunning. Morgan had been torn deeply, and burned by both flame and acid. He tried not to cry out, for Harry’s sake, and settled for clamping his teeth together and hissing out his pain. The agony was turning his insides to molten fire.

Just like any other dirty spell done without boundaries, other things began creeping in—emotional hurts that Bob really really didn’t want to know about—how Morgan had loved Mai in silence for so long, and had been desperately afraid to tell her… how he had, one night, stood outside the door to her aery, all night, heart pounding, unable to knock and tell her his heart. The pain he carried from Soto’s death, and others… so many others. Bob tried to stem the flow, but he was weakening, overwhelmed.

And then, feebly, Morgan’s hands slid down Bob’s flanks, clenching and unclenching. Bob stirred, his throat lifting from where it had been resting against Morgan’s clavicle. Morgan’s strong fingers pressed into Bob’s hips, and splayed outward. “What… what are you doing, necromancer?” There was more than a hint of fear in his voice, a trembling shudder.

“Shut up, Morgan,” Bob murmured. “You didn’t …die. I’m healing you. So… shut the …fuck up… and heal.”

Morgan drew a deep breath, his back arched, and his hips bucked. Bob rode it out, semi-conscious, his expression half-agony, half-ecstasy. 

“Hurts,” Morgan rasped. Bob pressed his forehead against Morgan’s collarbone, grimacing laughter. Morgan’s hands clenched again on Bob’s back, squeezing muscle through skin. “Hurts…” he said again, and Bob felt tears trickle down his ears and onto his own cheeks from Morgan’s eyes. Poor bastard. 

Bob felt the end of his strength coming like a wall. With everything he had, he drew the last of the injury out of Morgan, throwing back his head with an anguished cry. His body was covered in the same burns and lacerations, and Bob needed to scream out the pain. He clutched Morgan hard, writhing and grinding against him, using the hard surface of the Warden’s body to begin to unmake the hurt. In empathy healing, the transferred damage would fade fairly quickly—within hours—even if left alone, but Bob needed it gone—he couldn’t fight like this, broken. Morgan held on to him, soaked in the same ecstasy, lost completely in the primal magic that had joined the two wary allies. Harry’s shoulders were tight with not-watching… he knew as well, what was necessary. Hating it. Hating it.

Slowly, the burn marks on Bob’s skin began to fade, healing in rapid motion. He panted, almost hyperventilating, and Harry half-turned, desperate to see what was happening, and certain that whatever he saw was going to scar him for life.

The world chose that moment to explode.


	10. Chapter 10

The roof blew outward in a fountain of multicolored fire, a small dark figure in the center flying up and over the top. For a moment, Harry held hope like a blossom in his hand. Then Mai came crashing to the ground like a little broken rag doll, and his hope shriveled and died, along with what he thought of their chances. He glanced at Mai, fifteen feet away, and knew he couldn’t extend the shield that far. Knew it was only a matter of time. They were screwed.

Another dark figure leapt up through the hole, bringing light with it. Landing much more gracefully than Mai, a small woman walked toward them, her hips rolling in a curiously hypnotic gait. As she came into Harry’s sight, he caught his breath. She was stunning. White hair flowed down to her ankles, drifting across dusky olive skin. Her eyes were black in the darkness, and she wore a simple sari the color of moonlight. He had never seen anyone, man or woman, so beautiful. Wow. Go, Mai.

The woman stopped a meter from Harry and his two charges, and smiled softly, showing pointed teeth. He got chills, and tried manfully not to show it. She noticed anyway. “Now we can speak like civilized people.” She made a dismissive gesture toward the shield. “Save your strength, Mr. Dresden. We are under Accord, for the moment.”

Harry glanced down at Bob, who nodded weakly. Harry knew exactly how long his shield would last. They didn’t have anything to draw a circle with. They would have failed Boy Scouts miserably. He let go of his will, and the shield fell into whispers around them. The little woman brightened. 

“Hrothbert of Bainbridge! Did you like my trick tonight?”

Bob narrowed his eyes at her, not attempting to sit up. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing, Lady?”

She made a small courtesy. “I am Argyra. But you… you know me by another name, Lord Bainbridge, as I once knew you by another. You know me quite well. I was once called Caradog.”

An extraordinary change came over Bob. He became, if possible, even paler, and his hands shook. “Not… possible,” he choked out. Harry felt woozy, all of the sudden, and realized that it was because he couldn’t breathe. He tried again, and panted, and shook his head. Argyra was nodding solemnly.

“Many things are possible, if not likely—I would say it is less likely for me to be addressing you, mortal, than the other way around. But… Mai did so love you... If it is war that you feel you still need to make, then we can make it another time, Lord Bainbridge. But many years have passed, many rivers have been born and have died since that river. Perhaps…” she raised her eyebrow, but did not continue. Harry tried to breathe again, and cold air flooded into his lungs. He took several gasping chestfuls and concentrated on staying upright. He didn’t dare look at Bob, fearing that his need to comfort, and drag the truth out of him, would take over everything else.

She smiled down; still speaking to Bob, though the subject was changed. “Impressive working, by the way. Too bad you didn’t get to finish it. That sort of thing can be bad, left undone.” She left that hanging in the air, and turned to Harry. “You have come far, and fought well. The Coin, and the pretties will be yours, for the price of one of your own. Name the one who dies, Harry, and the rest will go free, with the remainder of Justin’s workings and doings. That is my bargain.”

Harry tried to process what he had just heard, spoken on such lilting tones. He knew that this was what Mai had come for—the dangerous plot that Justin had hatched needed to be ended, before the pieces fell into the hands of the highest bidder. But at the cost of a life… any life, when they had fought so hard? He summoned his will, and all of his strength, and found it pathetically wanting. Bob lay at his feet, his skin painfully lacerated, his head bowed, his mouth set in a grim line. Morgan… no. He wasn’t going to finish that though, no matter how tempting.

Well. At least he was dressed for a party.

Harry straightened to his impressive height as the tallest person in attendance, as well as being the only one besides Argyra who was able to stand on his feet. He planted himself firmly on the roof, and planted his will, rooting it through the tiles like the roots of a tree. Right, then. “No one is dying here tonight. Unless it’s you,” he amended.

Argyra laughed, a delicate trilling noise that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. Bob pushed himself up to a sitting position, his arms trembling with the effort, but he could go no further. He gazed up at Harry, awe and love and fear for Harry flickering through his expression, but said nothing. Argyra did, though. “What have you to say about it, pup?”

Harry bridled, but crammed his irritation down. He knew that he was the youngest of the crowd—did everyone have to keep reminding him? Deep breath, Harry. “Only this-- that this isn’t your world, anymore. And things don’t work the way you think, anymore. We don’t—“ He waved one hand back, taking in them all. “We don’t sacrifice people to dragons, or goddesses. Every life here is worth more than what you’re offering.”

The little dragon stepped back a bit, eyeing the sorry crowd of downed wizards. She peered long and hard at each of them, and then focused back on Harry. “I can see, youngling, that you love the Lord of Bainbridge, and all that self-sacrificial nonsense. And… I can see that you owe Mai your fidelity, a little. Honor is something we dragons do understand, believe it or not.” She smirked. “But, Harry, you don’t even like Morgan. He has, on several occasions, tried to frame you for the Black, or even kill you outright. He is no friend to you. It would be a simple matter to hand him over, and then you could all go free.” She looked genuinely puzzled, as if Harry was five leaps beyond the pale as far as logic was concerned.

He stared at her, wondering where she had been for the last several hours, besides rummaging around in his head. “Lady, I just spent all night keeping him alive. And just now Bob sacrificed our best chance at defense to save his life. Morgan’s alive because we willed it so. We continue to will it so, and will protect his life with ours, no matter how much of a rat he might be.” He paused, then frowned. “As stupid as that might sound.”

Bob sighed behind him. “You know, it really does, Harry.” He struggled to his knees, and then lifted himself gracelessly to his feet with an aching groan. Argyra watched them both with a glint in her eye, and then glanced over at Mai, who was stirring. While she was distracted, Bob leaned his body against Harry’s, his hands stroking across Harry’s back, and Harry felt the telltale crackle of heavy magic under Bob’s touch. He was recovering. 

Mai stood slowly, and shook herself. She glanced over at their little group, saw Morgan whole and breathing on the ground, and a softness lit her eyes briefly. Her legs trembled, but she narrowed her eyes at Argyra, and walked slowly over to her, pausing a foot away.

“That wasn’t kind of you.”

“Mai, they refuse to sacrifice Morgan, as you said. They’re no fun at all.”

Mai went rigid. And then she drew back, faster than lightning, and slapped Argyra across the face with a thunderclap of sound that echoed along the valleys that surrounded them. “They aren’t your toys, that you might play and torment them. This is Harry Dresden. He murdered your human lover, need I remind you, for the same treachery that I am unmaking tonight.”

Argyra cradled her cheek, her eyes ugly and horrible for a moment. Harry blinked, wondering what he ever found lovely about her. She snarled, and then her features smoothed over again, the bitterness hovering just under the surface. “You might like to know that it was Bainbridge who did the Healing. With a working of the deep deep magic.” She smirked again. “I wonder, some nights, what name your lover will wake up screaming.” She paused, letting that sink in, and then turned her back. “Won’t you all come in and have some tea?” And then she leapt down through the hole in the roof as if it were a door. 

They all stared after her. Mai turned to look at Bob. It was a look that Harry couldn’t describe or name, but he thought he knew exactly how it felt, because he was wearing one that he figured looked pretty much identical. Bob raised an eyebrow at her, as if to say, What would you have had me do? She shook her head, and turned away.

Harry raised his hand. “Mai, what the hell just happened?”

“I was unworking the rings, and they blew up in my face.” She wiped her dark hair out of her eyes, looking tired and sore.

Harry blinked. “You mean, she was scamming us? The whole time?”

Mai gave him a hard look. “It’s what she does, Dresden. She’s a treacherous bitch. You want tea or not?” Then, with a shake of her head, she following Argyra down the hole, leaving Bob and Harry to negotiate Morgan.

Bob, standing beside him, nodded slowly. “She is a treacherous bitch.” But to Harry, it wasn’t clear who he was talking about. 

Harry sighed, suddenly very very tired. He had gotten fit for a tux, made love in a limo, gone to a ball, been dragged upside down for a hundred miles through the air to a castle in the sky, and then had bled his life away to a guy he wouldn't even give the other Twinkie to, on a regular workday, all on a meal of a hamburger and fries. And Bob had stolen most of his fries. Bob... Turning, he tilted his head, and stroked his thumb over Bob’s cheek, down his neck and across his collarbone. Bob closed his eyes, and swayed into Harry’s touch, swallowing. He looked like he’d been beaten by a troll—using its bridge as the cudgel—but he was going to live. They both needed a shower, and about a week of sleep, and healing of another sort, as well. Harry met Bob’s eyes, and found them hooded, and a bit uncertain. Bob attempted a smile.

“Are you certain you want me, still? This was, technically, our first date.” His expression was equal parts wary and amused.

Harry puffed out his cheeks. “Maybe we should just order pizza tomorrow night?” Okay, so that wasn’t technically an answer. He silently pleaded for Bob to wait, and Bob, frowning, nodded grudgingly. For now.

Harry knelt down to the Warden and slapped his face. “Morgan, wakies. C’mon, wake up. You’re too big to carry.” Morgan groaned deep in his chest, and opened his eyes. He focused on Bob, narrowed, and closed them again.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Not quite,” Bob’s eyes sparkled mischievously, and he grinned. Harry sputtered, and the tension was broken in him, flooding out in a rush of helpless, snorting giggles. Morgan, ignoring them with as much dignity as he could muster, tried to help them as he got his legs underneath him, but ended up leaning heavily on both wizards as he swayed like a newborn colt. Which, in all practicality, he nearly was. 

Morgan turned to Bob, his eyes dark and his voice rough and raw, where the dragon had punctured a lung. He leaned very close, and said, “Bainbridge, if you ever do that sort of working on me again, I will kill you… and make it look like self-defense,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Bob leaned into Morgan, and Harry noticed with some amusement that Morgan jerked away slightly. Oh, but this was going to be fun. “Morgan,” purred Bob. “Just don’t get yourself nearly killed when I’m near… next time I just might let you die.”

Harry snorted. “What, and miss all this opportunity for the extortion of favors? Bob, c’mon, even Morgan knows you better than that.” He hefted the Warden over his shoulder and began walking, and the other two had no choice to cut their banter short. Bob shot an adoring glance at Harry, which was returned, with interest. 

Morgan scowled, and concentrated on moving. He was going to be a long time living this down. Maybe the rest of his long, long life. He despised the thought of having a life debt to Hrothbert of Bainbridge. 

Some days it just didn’t pay to get up in the morning.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry dropped to the floor below first, although what he was going to do had there been a threat, he hadn’t quite worked out yet. He found Argyra standing a meter away with a tea cup and a scowl, and smiled uncertainly at her. She merely showed teeth back at him, which were more yellow than white in the dim but serviceable candle and torchlight of the floor. His eyes widened slightly, his smile more a grimace by the time he managed to turn away. Instead, he studied the rest of the floor, or what he could see. It was richly done in ochers and textures that looked inviting enough to curl up in. Had this not been the lair of a drake, he might have been tempted. Two or three upholstered divans were scattered about, along with piles of rugs and skins—some from animals that Harry didn’t recognize, and some that were shocking in size. He turned away, paling. 

Morgan dropped heavily to the floor next to him and then shook himself. He was huge, Harry realized, with a moderate-sized burst of envy. He had the kind of muscle that you could walk on a beach with and draw a following, and it just kept going, all the way from shoulders down his abs, and lower... Harry realized he was staring, and then realized who he was staring at, just in time to catch the cold glare in Morgan’s eyes right as he turned away.

Great. Now the Warden had another reason to beat the shit out of him.

But Morgan was ignoring him again, standing underneath the gaping hole to assist Bob, who was still sporting some pretty grievous injuries. Bob gave him a look of concern, eyed the fall, and then, without warning, his knees buckled. He went slack, and before Harry could even react he pitched right over the edge, right into Morgan’s arms. The Warden caught him, not without some difficulty, but the look on his face was of mortified surprise. Bob winced, mildly horrified, as Morgan dropped him hastily to the floor as if he were on fire. “My thanks, good Warden,” he murmured, looking embarrassed. “So sorry. Stars and stones, weak as a blasted kitten.” He grimaced, in obvious pain.

“Bob…” threatened the big man uncertainly. But Bob just held on to him for a moment, swaying, and Morgan had no choice but to let him, or let him tumble to the floor. Finally, Bob let him go, straightening in all of his old, noble dignity. He brushed a hand lightly down the Warden’s back, and nodded his thanks. Only when he had fully turned away from Morgan did Harry see that wild, reckless glimmer in his eye. Bob didn’t even need to turn to see that Morgan flicked a sneaking glance in his direction, troubled, before going to Mai. But Harry saw it. 

“Collecting souls?” he muttered to Bob, when they were close enough to not be overheard.

Bob raised an eyebrow at him, then lowered it, shaking his head tiredly, but not without a gleam of mischief in his downcast expression. “Just his sexual energy. It helps, a bit, with the healing, it being his injury.” Both eyebrows went up. “And he does have a bit to spare.” He smiled, positively gleaming, and Harry shook his head, smiling uncertainly. Bob leaned against him, though, sighing, cutting off Harry’s jealous boil mid-simmer.

They both watched as Morgan strode over to Mai, who was staring at the small, warded tray that held, presumably, the objects she was attempting to unWork. She looked up at his approach, and her tired expression seemed to ease a little. She lifted a small hand, hesitantly, and touched Morgan’s chest, tracing the faint scar traces that were all that were left of injuries that had been his death sentence only an hour before. Unspoken between them was the understanding that she had left him to take care of other business—that he was not, nor never would be her top priority, but that she would always be his. And that he could choose to bear it, or not.

Slowly, Morgan’s large hand drifted up to cover hers with a gentleness that Harry wouldn’t have believed the Warden capable of, having been on the wrong side of that fist more times that he cared to remember. Mai didn’t pull her hand away, and they stood there, softly frozen.

Harry started to speak, but Bob cut him off, touching his lips with a delicate finger. “Don’t. We won’t speak of it, not now. You asked me to wait, and now I’m asking the same.” 

Harry studied him for a moment, and then sighed, nodding, unhappy. Bob closed his eyes, and sank his head down against Harry’s chest, and Harry slid his hands carefully around Bob’s back. The vicious lacerations that had opened him up were now only ugly scars, violently purpling with bruises around the edges. The burns and blistering had mercifully faded. Harry ached in empathy, and stroked what uninjured flesh he could find. “Can I help, Bob?” His voice was more raw than he expected it to be, and Bob grinned wickedly from where he was resting his forehead—a good semblance of his norm.

“Not unless we can sneak in the back and you can start making good on that tally, love.”

Harry’s stomach bloomed in heat, as much at Bob’s tone of voice as at his words. He sank a kiss on Bob’s shoulder, closing his eyes against the feel of smooth muscle like cool stone underneath his lips. “You think they would notice we were gone?”

From the other side of the room, a sharp voice interrupted their quiet exchange. “For God’s sake, Dresden, stop thinking with your dick and get over here.”

“Yes. Probably,” murmured Bob with a chuckle.

Well. Obviously Morgan was feeling better.

The working’s explosion did nothing for Mai’s mood, but for once, Bob wasn’t in the mood to banter with her. The four had gathered around the circle, after having accepted tea from Argyra, who was playing the consummate host now, and thoroughly giving Harry the Alice-in-Wonderland-crazy vibes. Mai was frowning, which was so similar to her normal expression that Harry actually picked the mood up off Morgan and Bob, who were also frowning. Harry frowned too, just for uniformity.

“I don’t understand why I couldn’t unWork them.” She stared at the circle, which held a dull yellow coin and thirteen gold rings and charms of various styles and sizes. Some were delicately crafted, and some very gaudy. One was in the shape of a curling dragon, with little delicate emeralds for eyes. “It’s a simple thaumaturgical chain spell. And Justin was no match for me. He wasn’t even a match for Harry, “she snorted, and gave Harry a scornful once-over. Harry scowled at her, irritated, but didn’t rise to the bait. He knew he was pretty sloppy, but he was no slouch. Bob had taught him well, and taught him things that even Mai didn’t know about. 

Not that she would even know about those things…

Bob stiffened minutely. Only Harry caught it-- having shared space with him for twenty-five years gave them both intimate knowledge of each other’s mannerisms. Bob’s eyes were narrowed—not at Mai, but at Argyra, who was looking at him with a curious smile on her face. “You knew, obviously, from the beginning.”

She shrugged. “I worked closely with Justin, for a time. Clearly, he told me things that he didn’t tell you, darkling.”

He ignored her reference. “Why the violence?”

“Some people aren’t good listeners.” She glanced pointedly at Morgan, who was watching her narrowly.

“You could have asked,” Bob pointed out. He frowned, in his best lecture mode. Even naked to the waist, battered, and bloody, he could have bowed the head of Aristotle. Argyra blinked, and pouted.

“And spoil the fun?”

“I don’t consider the deaths of my colleagues to be ‘fun.’ ” His words were clipped, and Harry could feel the rage like a wave of heat.

“Even if it’s Morgan?” Her eyes were lit with cruel mischief. 

Morgan stood straighter, his muscle rippling with all sorts of menace in the glowing candlelight. Harry could have sworn that the man growled. But it was Mai that spoke, her tiny hand pressing against her Warden’s breast, holding him back. “How many?” Her voice rang out, stilling all chance of further conflict. Argyra returned to her pout, and scraped a toe across the rug.

“Five.” It was Bob who answered. Harry had worried that that was the case. He counted the room again, as Bob continued. “I remember that night. Justin had no idea how much I could sense from my skull.”

Harry swallowed at that. “Really?” he whispered. Bob gave him a little, private smile.

“Oh, my, yes.” They gazed at each other for a moment, Harry quickly finding a hundred reasons to be thoroughly mortified, and Bob wanting very much to soothe him with more than just a look.

“You brought us all together for this, but didn’t tell us why?” Mai’s voice was dangerously low, and Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Argyra frowned. “I did it for you, Mai. As a present. No need to be such a bitch about it.

Mai stared at her for a moment, and then straightened, her hand falling to her side. She walked over to Argyra, who was watching her with luminous eyes. Mai lifted her hands to Argyra’s cheeks, leaned in, and kissed her on the lips, very gently. Argyra was frozen in place. So was Harry. So was Morgan. Bob raised his eyebrows in a small moue, and then slipped behind Harry, his arms snaking around him. Mai stepped back. “You did this for me. I thank you. I am grateful.”

Argyra touched her lips, and gazed at Mai. “You’re welcome.”

Silence fell on the group. Bob rested his head on Harry’s shoulder. Morgan stood off to the side, a wall of iron, his expression unreadable. Mai stood with her former lover, waiting. And after only a few moments, the little silver dragon sighed, and straightened. “Let’s get this show on the road then, shall we?”

Harry was careful not to breathe a great gushing sigh of relief. Mai would have been really pissed at him if she had had to go round up another wizard at this time of night, due to the Wizard Dresden sending Argyra into a sulking fit.

Once they knew the trick, the unWorking was more or less a matter of getting into position. Outside the small circle that contained the coin and rings, Mai drew a large circle and pentagram, and they each took up position at one of the points, joining hands. Bob managed to land between Harry and Mai, leaving Morgan to squeeze Harry’s hand a little more firmly that he needed to. Argyra was situated between Mai and Morgan, a position she evidently found very amusing. Whatever gained her cooperation was fine by Harry. 

Harry felt Bob’s hand squeeze his slightly. He concentrated, and the combined Will of five practitioners wove slowly and joined the Circle, making Harry’s skin tingle with power. He had rarely been in a circle this big, and it was a head-rush. Add to that Bob and two ancient dragons, and he was surprised he wasn’t on fire. 

The spell worked like the thick twining of heavy growth, binding them together. Harry’s magic was the tense and powerful cording of raw strength, leafing and flowering out with the gorgeous, wild tendrils of excess energy. Bob, on one side of him, threaded the circle with sensual gold filaments of magical power that were so precise they could have snaked between two molecules of iron. They laced around the edges of Harry’s magic, brilliant and lovely, covering everything in a gossamer web. Morgan’s magic, on the other side, was steel wire, sleek and deadly. His magic wound around Harry’s, and through, piercing it in places that Bob hadn’t quite reached. But where Bob’s gossamer lace had been laid down, Morgan’s magic could not pierce though. Argyra was hot molten silver—dragon magic was elemental, and volatile. It writhed around the steel cords of Morgan’s, and bonded, joining so intimately that no difference could be told. 

Morgan was good. He was totally relaxed. Harry tried to relax. He saw Mai, on the other side of Bob, and saw their magic join. And felt his shoulders tense up again. Mai’s magic was like ropes of fire—he knew how painful it could be, and how strong. Bob’s gossamer web touched her fire, and bright coruscating fireworks blazed from the points of contact. It wasn’t a battle of Wills, exactly—more of a searching out of the most intimate part of a Wizard. Magic was the deepest part of you—it was made out of what you were—like sugar and spice, and everything nice… or puppy dog tails, conversely. Mai was touching Bob in a way that Harry had never touched Bob, which made him ache. The gossamer fire whipped and writhed, braiding together, and beside him, Bob tilted back his head, his lips parted, eyes closed. Harry tore his eyes away, and concentrated on his job. For once, he felt comradery with Morgan. 

He peeked at Morgan. Goddamn Warden looked like he was carved from stone.

Mai spoke an incantation that seemed very familiar to Harry, and the lines smoothed from Harry’s brow as she pulled them all in. The corded magic tugged them from the heartstrings, and wound through the coin and rings, pulling them into component parts, disassociating, unWorking the magical binding that tied them together. It took less than a minute. There were no more fireworks.

Sort of anti-climactic, after everything they had gone thought. Harry wouldn’t have minded seeing Argyra shoot through the roof.

The releasing of the circle began with Mai, and flooded down to Harry. He let go of Morgan, the steel wires untangling from his branches with a few sharp tugs. Morgan narrowed his eyes at Harry, but said nothing. Bob, however, did not let go of Harry completely. He released Mai, breaking the circle, and then took Harry’s other hand in his. They stood for a moment, just like that, and Bob bound Harry up in lacey, golden threads just as Harry wrapped him in blossoms and greenery. Harry didn’t want to let go. He closed his eyes, sliding his hands up Bob’s arms, taking in the soft new skin, unblemished under his fingertips. Unblemished…

Harry’s eyes flew open. He stared at Bob’s chest and arms, and realized that the injuries were now completely gone, without a trace. Bob gave him a gentle, wistful smile, and mouthed, “Thank you.” His gaze was tender, and irresistible. Harry bowed his head, and kissed him, long and slow and deep, and be damned even if there was a full White Council meeting in progress. Bob evidently felt the same way. He flicked his tongue over the roof of Harry’s mouth, his hands sliding under the dark wool dinner jacket that had miraculously survived the night relatively intact. 

Those piles of animal skins were staring to seem fairly intriguing, resident dragon or not. Mai had other plans, however. She finished gathering up the useless bits of metal into a pouch, and walked to the embracing lovers with a pained expression. “Dresden, for the love of Wind and Fire.”

Harry broke slowly from Bob, taking a deep breath. Bob drew in the tendrils of magic carefully, before Mai touched either of them, and gave her a lazy smile. She scowled, not rising to the bait. “I’m leaving. Morgan’s coming with me.” Morgan slid in silently behind her, as if nothing had ever happened between them.

“You did promise us a ride, Ancient.” Bob sounded completely unconcerned. Just then, there was a knock on the door. Mai raised her eyebrows at him, and smiled her own brand of wicked smile. It looked a great deal like her happy smile. Harry wondered briefly if she even had a happy smile.

“I called the limo. Since you’ve already bollixed it up. It’s a two hour drive—try not to traumatize my driver.”

Bob smiled cunningly back at her. “Touché, my darling. Perhaps some other night, then.” It wasn’t a question. Mai simply stared at him. Harry felt Morgan grow two sizes larger, at least, but he didn’t much care. He smoothed down his coat, and nodded to Argyra, who was standing to the side, looking at them all as if they had completely outstayed their welcome. Which, they had. 

“Nice to meet you, Silver Lady.” Hell, no one could tell him he wasn’t a gentleman. She made him a small courtesy, and he bowed back. Bob did the same, and then took Harry by the arm and headed for the door, grabbing staff and sword and dagger where they lay by the side of the door on their way out.

When the limo driver saw them, she barely refrained from a heavy sigh, turning just in time. They walked down a long staircase on the outside of the house which had seen better days—evidently dragons didn’t see to the maintenance on staircases very often. She even handed them into the car. But once inside the back, Harry took one look at Bob, smiled wearily, and found the most comfortable position he possibly could to stretch out his long limbs. 

Bob smiled at him, amused, but Harry could see the sheer exhaustion behind his pale blue eyes. Harry patted his shoulder, and Bob eyed the narrow couch a moment before shrugging and sliding over to pillow himself against Harry’s breast. Harry kissed the top of Bob’s head, the wizard’s silver hair soft and scented with blood and magic, and stroked his back, his fingertips barely touching his silken skin slightly cool from the night wind. 

He had good intentions. He had intended to talk everything out in the car, and have done. But the rocking motion of the car down the mountain was like the rocking of a cradle, and the sheer expenditure of energy was simply too much for both of them—they were asleep well before they even reached the bottom of the driveway.


	12. Chapter 12

Morgan picked up the tattered remains of Bob’s jacket, threading the soft material between his fingers, and frowned. Beyond him, the soft forest breathed cool and damp air across his broad chest, washing away the lingering traces of the pain that Argyra had inflicted on him, evidently for her own pleasure. He lifted his eyebrows. Dragons. As if he didn’t already have enough trouble with one…

“Coming, Morgan?” Her voice was soft, trickling up behind him like something delicate, something fragile. He ignored the gooseflesh that prickled across his shoulders at the sound of her tone—it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except that she was safe. He nodded, folding Bob’s jacket tightly up and peering around the roof. She walked up beside him, her black hair tickling over his biceps. He didn’t look at her. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t remember my sword.” His voice shook, so very slightly, and he cursed his frailty. 

“It was left at your flat.” 

“She didn’t take it, as a prize?” Morgan was genuinely startled, and he did turn then, to find Mai gazing back at him, her expression peaceful. 

“You were more a prize than your Warden’s Mark.” 

“I don’t feel it, particularly.” He dropped his gaze to the tiled roof, a humorless grimace eking out his pain, his humiliation. 

She didn’t speak for a moment. The pain of her silence, which he took for tacit agreement, boiled in his gut like acid. So, when her small, cool hand stroked down his arm, he didn’t quite comprehend that Mai was touching him.

And when he did, finally, he didn’t quite know what to do. Perhaps she didn’t, either.

Her hand, light and cool, rested in the crook of his elbow, and her hair tickled his skin. He raised his other hand, and carefully brushed her bangs back from her eyes, revealing her black eyes, inky and unfathomable. 

“If I have let you down, Ancient…”

She leaned into his hand, delicately. “You’re all I have. If you never hear me say it again, remember.”

Morgan felt like the bottom had dropped out of his world. His breath caught somewhere in his great chest, and if there had been words, they could not have come. And then she was turning, and she was transforming into something that he could not cradle in his arms. 

* * *

They flew out over the far side of Orion. Morgan rode with a confident ease born of long journeys, patrols over the city, and short flights made out of desperate need. He had long lost the need to hang on to her with anything but his knees hooked under her wings, and his hands free to wield sword or magic—mostly because she had pledged not to drop him to the earth. He took some comfort in that.

But his thoughts were in turmoil—he was obscenely glad that Mai was silent tonight, as she sometimes was. He kept going over everything in his head—from being taken by surprise on the roof of his flat by the wrong dragon to taking the hideous injury that he had… the bloody, dizzy trip to Argyra’s aery and his imprisonment, Harry’s arrival and the life-force touch that surged into him… how surprised he had been. And even more shocked that Bob, who had no love for him, would have done such a thing as the empathic healing. Such a thing… it left a Mark—permanent and intimate. He could not understand why Bob—the Dark Necromancer of legend, whose deeds in the Black were fireside tales meant to frighten children—had done this thing born so purely out of sacrifice.

And Mai… how she had been gentle, how she had stroked her fingertips across his scars… how she had been…

He could hardly bear the breaking of his world like this. He felt as if his ribs were cracking, and the pain was so real, that his seat wavered, and Mai shifted under him to compensate. 

He hardly realized that they had landed, and not in Chicago. He had hugged Mai’s long, slender neck out of habit, and dismounted, but his boots had crunched down into the thick undergrowth of a grove. Mai turned her opalescent head to him, and flicked out her tongue inscrutably. Then it was just Mai, shaking her hair out, watching him. “You nearly lost your seat, Warden,” she observed.

Morgan gazed down at her, and at the soft moonlight that filtered down across her golden skin. His mouth quirked up in a mild grin. “Nearly, Ancient.” 

She was close enough, now. When he reached out to her, she did not pull away from him, and he dark eyes did not mock him, or deny.

Nothing else mattered.

* * *

It was well after three in the morning when the limo pulled up at Harry’s door. Neither of them even noticed, and the driver, full of trepidation when she opened the car door, had actually had to shake Bob awake. He came to with a snort and a wide-eyed blink, and then nodded groggily and shook Harry awake in turn. They shuffled around a bit in the back of the limo, gathering up Harry’s stick and sword, and then nodded to the driver. Harry might even have given her a muzzy kiss on the cheek, but he wouldn’t have sworn to it later.

Unwarding and warding up the entrance were fortunately things that Harry could do more than half-dead, and he paused at the door to check and make certain no one was lurking in the shadows, inside or out, before bringing them both inside. Bob, immediately on entering, sank to the couch and curled into it, his back to Harry, and mumbled something incoherent. Harry, without pausing, slid both arms around him, picked him up bodily, and started dragging him toward the stairs. 

Near the first riser, Bob realized that Harry was serious.

“Tonight, Harry? Not up for… much, darling.”

Harry set him on his feet, steadying him, and stroked his hands down Bob’s arms, still bare. “I just want you close. That okay?” His voice was thin, a little stretched, and the sound of it snapped Bob into wakefulness. Bob brought his hand up to cradle Harry’s chin, caught the whisper of a troubled expression in the dim light, and leaned back with a mock-critical examination of the younger wizard’s excessively rumpled state. He sighed dramatically.

“Well, you’d better carry me into the shower, then, because I’m not sleeping next to anyone as caked in dirt, sweat, and gore as you, love.” He smirked, and Harry glanced down at his once-gorgeous, ruined clothes with weary dismay. But he dutifully led Bob to the bathroom, shrugging out of the jacket and shirking off the waistcoat on the way. Bob caught them both before they hit the floor, thinking fond thoughts of Charlie as he folded them over a chair back. Shoes and socks went next, landing behind a table, but he didn’t even bother.

By the time Harry made it to the bathroom door, he was down to just his shirt, having stepped out of his pants in that carelessly graceful way that he had of discarding clothing in as haphazard a manner as possible. But any pleasure Bob would have had in the sight of Harry’s lean, muscular legs and the fluttery thrill of discovery that he had decided to forgo undergarments for the evening was shocked out of him by a hideous gash that serrated Harry’s left thigh from his hip nearly to his knee. The blood had been masked by the dark wool fabric, but now the wound grimaced ugly and bruised. Harry winced. Bob was aghast. “Harry, when did this happen?” He knelt to examine the gash, as Harry fumbled with his buttons.

Harry’s voice was softy gruff. “Um, I think when Argyra grabbed for me, right after I figured out it wasn’t Morgan. It happened so fast, she scraped her talons across my thigh on the first try. I forgot about it, but I, uh, I think the pants were stuck to it, a bit.” 

Bob was shaking his head. “You are the most stubborn man I have ever known, Dresden.”

“Including yourself?” Harry countered. He slipped the last button out of the last buttonhole, and the shirttail ghosted across Bob’s cheek. Bob’s eyes trailed over the angry wound to Harry’s angular hip, to the dark, curling fur at the base and downward to the tip of Harry’s half-aroused cock, long and lean, just like the rest of him. He was so heartbreakingly beautiful. Bob sank a kiss tenderly on a small area of unbroken skin on Harry’s thigh and gazed up at him, a half-exasperated, half-loving expression on his face. 

“Excepting myself. You’d go mad within days of being trapped in a skull.” He said this with some humor behind it, but Harry knew the truth of it. Bob straightened smoothly, and slipped his hands underneath the hem of the shirt, gently sliding it off Harry’s arms. The shirt puddled on the floor. Harry’s hips and cock grazed against the soft rough texture of the denim that Bob was still wearing, and Harry gave a soft sigh of pleasure at the touch.

“Overdressed, now…” Harry murmured, and his hands stroked down Bob’s abdomen to the button of his jeans and tugged it open, pulling Bob slightly forward with the motion. With a quick flick of his wrist, Harry undid the remaining buttons in the fly, and with both hands slid Bob’s jeans off his lean hips, leaving the two men in an intimate state of undress, vulnerable, but bloody and exhausted. 

They simply stood for a moment, joined at hip and breast, Bob’s hand’s stroking over Harry’s shoulders, eyes closed. Harry kissed him on the forehead, and again on his right temple. Then he wavered, and Bob steadied him gently. “Come on, then. Let’s get you cleaned up, dear heart, and in bed.”

“Love you, Bob,” Harry whispered, his lips near Bob’s right ear. Bob’s shoulders and neck burst out in gooseflesh, and he squeezed Harry gently, still ushering him into the shower.

“I love you, Harry. Don’t fall asleep on me, or you’ll be sleeping in the bath.” That earned him a grin, and he had to reach around Harry to turn the water on. He settled the younger wizard on the toilet seat and then rummaged through the cabinet for antiseptic to clean Harry’s leg. Kneeling to position himself in the cramped bathroom earned him a rather different look, and he smiled softly at Harry as the man’s eyes fell a shade or two darker at the proximity of Bob to his now much more alert penis. 

Unfortunately, as soon as Bob poured on the antiseptic, Harry’s arousal evaporated in a stinging wince. “Ow, damn!” Harry gripped Bob’s shoulder in protest. Bob let him hang on, knowing how badly it had to sting. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, and Bob was patient, cleaning out every speck of dust and grime and then summoning his will to purge it of infection and seal the cut. The expenditure of magic left him shaky, though, and he struggled to lift himself up, afterwards. Somehow, they both managed to climb into the shower without damaging themselves or anything around them.

Whatever invention of modern day was touted as being the most amazing, the most advancing of all society, Bob would list hot, pressurized water right at the top. He languished in the spray until Harry begged him out, and then propped himself up against the wall of the bath and watched his lover slowly wash himself off. He loved Harry’s long, lean body, with arms and legs that were made for fencing and an abdomen that was all soft, velvet skin stretched over wiry muscle and bone. Being a ghost had afforded him ample opportunity to watch but since he could not touch, he often decided that the cost outweighed the benefit. Now he could do both—and felt as if it were a feast. 

Bob realized that Harry was watching him in turn. With his hair swept away from his face and his cheeks ruddy from the heat, Harry looked even younger than normal, and Bob felt he had never seen anyone more beautiful. Harry held out his hand. “Wash your back?” 

“Only if I get to stand under the water again,” he smirked. Harry rolled his eyes in mock protest and slid his hand around Bob’s waist, pulling him gently forward under the water. The feel of Harry’s strong fingers digging gently into his muscles made Bob’s knees go weak, however, and he had to brace himself up against the shower wall. Harry stood behind him, rubbing soap into his skin and massaging Bob’s shoulders and back with strong fingers, until Bob began to moan with the pleasure of it. The tension of the working and the strain of losing Harry, however temporarily, eased away in the heat and delicious pressure of Harry’s hands on his skin. It was almost—almost too much. 

Harry remained silent, except for the occasional grunt when he hit a tough knot, or a moan of his own when the head of his penis rubbed up against Bob’s backside in a manner that neither of them could ignore. He had thought that he had wanted to talk, but he figured that whatever it was could wait. Maybe forever. Certainly until tomorrow. But when he worked a nasty knot out of Bob’s shoulder blade, it was Bob who spoke, his voice trembling and quiet.

“I was afraid, Harry, that I had lost you.” He sounded scared, and it sank into Harry like a hot stone in his belly. Harry didn’t stop his hands, but sank a kiss on the nape of Bob’s neck, as Bob continued. “It made me realize… that no matter how many people I have in my pocket—no matter that Morgan now owes me a life debt, or Mai a blood debt, or combined that we have a fan club of a hundred debutante wizardlings who bow and scrape and owe us service… that I am still as essentially as helpless to protect you as I was when incorporeal.”

He fell silent, and Harry fell quiet, his hands resting on Bob’s hips. He put the soap on the side and pressed himself tightly against the older wizard, and began to stroke Bob’s chest and abdomen, not allowing him to turn around. His fingers glided lightly over Bob’s silken, water-slicked flesh, feeling the hard muscle just underneath—the rippling power of the man who had waited all those centuries to be useful in the manner of his own choosing. Harry’s fingers found the steel-grey curls that framed Bob’s sex, and the heavy line that delineated his abdomen from his hips. Bob just lay back against him, breathing slowly, eyes closed.

Finally, Harry found words. “You have never been helpless to protect me, Bob,” he whispered. “You taught me. And now, having you by my side, I feel a thousand times stronger—it scares me, a little, what we could do together. I’m sure it scares a lot of people.” Bob chuckled at that, and Harry planted another kiss on his ear. “But you can’t protect me.”

“Why’s that, Harry?” Bob’s voice was drowsy with a combination of lust and grief.

Harry took a deep breath. “Because I’d go crazy if you put me in a cage, like you said, Bob. Wouldn’t last a day in your skull.”

Bob stiffened underneath him, and Harry stilled his hands. For a long moment, they stood there frozen as the water coursed over them, drowning out the world. Then, slowly, Bob turned around in Harry’s arms, until they were facing, pale blue to deep brown. But Bob said nothing—merely studied him, his eyes flicking over Harry’s features as if memorizing them. 

Harry stroked the back of his mentor’s neck, tenderly. “Tell me you weren’t thinking it, Bob. Of going away, of leaving here and hiding us away in some far corner of the earth.”

Bob gazed at him a moment longer, immense sadness in his eyes. Then he smiled, gently, and kissed Harry’s lips, lingering long. “You are a terrible fool, Harry Dresden.”

Harry grinned. “And that would make you the fool’s fool, Hrothbert of Bainbridge, if you’ll have me?” There was the slightest hint of a question in his voice, the slightest tremble of hesitation at the end. Bob, solemn-eyed, kissed him again—richer, full, his tongue questing inside Harry’s mouth, trailing along his teeth and lips until Harry’s hips swayed against his, rising and falling. 

One of them turned the water off, maybe. Harry tugged a towel off the rack in passing, wrapping it around them both as they felt their way up the stairs and tumbled, still soaking wet, across the bed. He shook out his hair, cooling water spattering Bob’s pale skin in beads as Bob grinned and held up his hands, playfully begging mercy. Harry rubbed the towel over Bob’s exposed body, across ivory skin that hadn’t been touched for centuries, making even this small thing matter. He lavished Bob with the deep affection that fountained up from his heart, stroking each curve of muscle with the soft towel, and then when it was too damp to matter, abandoning it for his fingers. 

Skin was often compared to silk, or to velvet, or to marble… but in truth it didn’t feel completely like any of these things. Bob’s skin under Harry’s fingers was warm and alive, and the hard muscle rolled underneath him as Bob reached for him. Soft, yes… and damp—the silver hairs on Bob’s forearms were as fine as his hair, and his fingers were powerful as they gripped Harry’s shoulders. Harry allowed himself to be cradled, softly rocked within the embrace of the one person on earth that loved him—he, Harry Dresden—loved by Hrothbert of Bainbridge, Scourge of the White, Necromancer, cursed and bound for all time. Bob.

Loved him.

He marveled. 

Truly, nothing else had ever mattered.


	13. Chapter 13

Epilogue

Morgan stood before them both, looking shy, for lack of a better word. Harry could hardly countenance it—the massively-built man, once more in Armani and as creased and shined as it was possible for a human to be and not be Bob, exhibited a small flicker of uncertainty that made his expression seem less severe. He had come early this morning, and Harry was dressed fitfully. Bob looked… sleek—he had managed in five minutes to find something both tailored and black. It really wasn’t fair. Morgan took a breath. 

“For you, Hrothbert of Bainbridge. who healed my wounds.” Ah, so this was Ritual. Morgan stepped forward and kissed Bob on his left cheek. Bob closed his eyes halfway, pursing his lips thoughtfully, and Harry felt the snap of magic sharpen the air around them. He also didn’t miss that Morgan’s kiss had caught the corner of Bob’s mouth. Pulling back, he turned to Harry. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “And to you, Harry Dresden, who kept me alive until he did.” Morgan kissed him as well, on the right cheek, and also touching a corner of his mouth. It was a strange, if not unwelcome intimacy. The crackle of unspent magic surrounded him as well, like a protective wall.

Morgan stepped back. “I seem to have the life-force of you both within me now, and it is a debt that I cannot repay you in anything but like.” With a sudden movement, his silver sword was in his hand, and he swung in with a strength that would have removed both their heads from their bodies, had it arced half a foot lower. It whistled bare inches from the top of Harry’s scalp. Harry blinked. Morgan gave him a dangerous grin that made Harry’s joints feel watery. “All debts are paid up, Bainbridge. You owe nothing to the Council. You have passed the Trial.” He paused, and frowned. “This doesn’t mean that new debts can’t be incurred, of course.”

Harry held up his hands as Morgan’s sword disappeared back into his coat. “Wait, trial? What are you talking about?”

Bob leaned towards Harry, his eyes flinty. “He means that had I let him die, my life would be forfeit also.” Morgan gave him what passed for a smile. Harry looked at Bob in horror, and Bob just shook his head slightly, as if to say, not now. 

Harry was cut off in mid-sputter by Mai’s entrance into the shop. She was wearing a green silk jacket embroidered with phoenixes, of all things, and looked tired. Bob turned to her, and his expression instantly brightened. He pounced on her, liquid-quick, embracing her and twirling her in the air. “Your debt to me, however, dearest Mai, is not paid.”

“Morgan, kill this man.” Mai’s expression didn’t even change, even when Bob set her down, his hands firmly around her slender hips.

“Can’t,” Morgan said simply, with a hint of regret.

Mai sighed, but she had settled her hands around Bob’s waist to steady herself. Harry shook his head, marveling. “What do you want, Bainbridge?”

“Money,” Bob murmured in a purr that made Harry shiver. Mai smiled crookedly.

“And what will you do for me?” she purred back, her lips ghosting against the bare skin at the hollow of his throat. 

He glinted, his fingers flexing. “I won’t tell what I called you… the second time I encountered you, my darling Mai.”

She stared at him, frozen. “Morgan. Can I kill him?”

“I wouldn’t be able to stop you, my Lady.”

* * *

After they had left, Bob turned to Harry with a sparkle in his eye. “Living for a thousand years does have its uses.”

Harry grinned back at him. “So spill. What’s the story?” He put his hands on his hips and made not-budging movements, just in case Bob seemed disinclined to tell. But Bob laughed, a hearty, gorgeous sound that Harry could never hear enough of.

“The first time I came across her, I thought she was a goddess fallen from the sky. I was a child—barely fifteen, and an apprentice in the Magiks. The second time… well, she was so filthy from her exile, and the location I found her in… she could hardly blame me, but dragons are so proud.” He was beaming, and Harry took him by the arm.

“For God’s sake, man, what?”

“I’m afraid I quite mistook her for the washer woman’s daughter.”


End file.
